Mia: Shaken Not Stirred

The true life stories of a NYC female.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Flying Shoes

I was surrounded by mayhem. I was acting as a physical barrier between several teenagers intent on beating the snot out of each other. The few adults present were of no help, it was their kids that were fighting so instead of helping they just made things worse.

My Yeti stepped off the elevator and walked straight into the mini riot. There had to be at least 25-30 people in the narrow hallway and I was in the center of it. The Yeti took one look at the situation and dove right in tackling a couple of boys who’d started a side brawl behind me. The Yeti lifted one of the boys up in a bear hug and carried him straight into his apartment and then came back for the other and ordered them both to remain inside before he really got angry. “Does he play football?” one of the boys asked. “He used to, I replied, “he was a quarter back until he shattered his knee.”

Some of the teenagers and adults started arguing with me. I quickly squelched the most vocal branch of the kiddie’s ‘let’s disrespect Mia’ brigade with a couple of reprimands. It wasn’t that simple with the adults. A couple of women in their early thirties were screaming at the top of their lungs at me. I just knew they’d been trouble makers in school they had that look about them, the kind that rolled their eyes and back talked the teacher. When my dad walked out of the elevator everyone seemed to calm themselves down. They were still yelling and cursing up a storm but no fists were flying and no one was attempting to charge at each other anymore which is a good thing because it had been awhile since my last work out and my arms were starting to kill me from holding everyone back.

Seeing my father there made one woman particularly brave, the woman had no idea the man was my father. People always get thrown off by my appearance versus that of my father. While there is no denying my brother who is the spitting image of my dad or my sister who resembles both sides of the family people get a puzzled expression when it comes to me. My dad is tall, dark blonde, straight haired, olive complected and green eyed. I am darker than both my parents with curly light brown hair with streaks of copper in it and light brown eyes. When friends meets my mom they’ll always comment on my resemblance to her when they meet dad however they have to squint a bit before they find traces of him in my face.

The woman in question was not squinting, she was just mad. She started cursing me out and I reprimanded her, "Why are you yelling at me?” I asked. “I am not disrespecting you. I expect you to give me the same courtesy that I am giving you.” The woman’s sister called out to my father, "Willie you better come over here and get your daughter!" My dad approached me and smiled, "Hey little one,” he said. "Hi pa" I replied. He glanced over and sternly told her, “she seems to be doing fine.”

By this time the kids who'd been involved in the fight were trying to explain to me what had caused the fight. "You don't have to explain nothing to that bitch!" the angry woman who’d gone to high school with my uncle yelled out from behind the teenager. The boy waved her off and continued to talk to me. She charged towards me stopping a foot or so away and launched into verbal tirade. She looked as if she wanted to hurl herself at me with each vulgarity she uttered she stepped closer to me. The angry woman glared at me, oh yeah she wanted to kick my butt, it was so written all over her face. She began removing her shoes.

It’s an old school move, one I had only heard of but have never actually seen. According to the chapter that covers fist fighting among women in the Ghetto 101 manual when fighting in doors women are advised to remove their shoes in order to gain traction. I watched as she slowly toed off her second shoe. I looked at my dad and shrugged my shoulders he looked just as confused as I was. It made no sense to me that she’d taken off her shoes after all I still had mine. All I had to do was stomp on her bare feet and it was a wrap for her.

She tossed her shoes aside and I found myself genuinely smiling at her. Without her shoes she was shorter than me! I rarely come across someone who is actually shorter than me unless they are a member of the lollipop guild or have osteoporosis so when I do I must stop and savor the moment. I gave her an even bigger smile. I was enjoying being the taller one for a change. I quickly snapped out of my euphoria and wagged my finger in her face, “You need to calm yourself the fuck down and back off.” I told her. The crowd was shocked. None of them had ever heard me curse in the 18 years that they’d known me and there’s a reason for that. Even though I may throw a cuss word here and there on the blog in real life I am not a cusser. Instead I use substitute words for cusses for example, ‘mother hubba’ and ‘son of a fish’, well you get the idea. I have to be really, really, really mad before an actual swear word pops out.

She hesitated for a couple of seconds and picked up her shoes and went to stand beside her sister. As the kid resumed his explanation a shoe flew by my face quickly followed by another and landed behind me. I recognized the shoes as they sailed past. Not only was she short but she had crappy aim. Just as quickly the shoes were flung back at her by someone standing behind me. This person had great aim, this person also had strength and obviously this person played baseball from the speed the flying shoes had on them. The shoes hit the woman dead center in her forehead one after the other causing her head to snap back from the impact each time leaving heel imprints on her forehead. “Well that’s going to leave a mark.” I said to no one in particular. I turned to see who had thrown the shoe, it was my uncle. That pretty much calmed the woman down, that and the police officers that had just stepped off the elevator.

“Nice throw.” I said to my uncle as I watched the cops make their way towards us.

He smiled shyly at me, “Yeah well no one throws shoes at my niece.”

“Thanks man.”

“No problem, I figure that makes us even for the time I slapped you across the forehead with the baked chicken.”

I shook my head at him, "It was rotisserie chicken, the fat dripped down my face." I said.

He stepped back and chuckled at the memory, "So I still owe you huh?"

"Damn skippy you do." I replied.

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