"In the blink of an eye, the two bigger men pound the smaller guy in the chest and face, throwing punches with the full force of their malice..."
I'm standing just outside the L.A. Weekly's gate on Sunset, finishing up a call with my friend Penelope and feeling uplifted by the almost tragically perfect Southern California spring day, when I look to my right and see a few figures walking east toward me on the sidewalk: a smaller, thinner guy in front and two good-sized, rather stocky guys behind him. The guy in front wears jeans, a t-shirt and a lightweight blue jacket. The two other guys both wear black shorts, almost to the knee, and black T-shirts, one of them superimposed with a large white skull design.
As they near the slight inlet created by the Weekly gate's setback on the sidewalk, I notice an air of out sized, exaggerated horseplay, the kind of semi-restrained masculine aggression and physical restlessness you'll often find wherever regular dudes congregate.
The two bigger guys rush in on the smaller guy -- who takes some evasive quick steps in a diagonal direction toward the gate -- and then they lean forward and down toward his face in a jaunty display of mock menace similar, no doubt, to some shenanigans I myself have engaged in at some point in the past. Or so I thought.
One of the bigger guys keeps repeating: “Yo, what's up, homey? You want to get a beat down? You ready for a beat down? You gonna' get beat down.” I process his statements, out of the corner of my non-telephone ear, as the jocular irony of the street. This beefy six foot tall, two hundred pound lug, identically built sidekick attached at the hip, is mocking the deadly serious language of the urban tough in order to passively aggressively blow off steam on this smaller buddy. While a little jarring, it still fits into the clear, bright, optimistic feel of this nearly Utopian day.
In the blink of an eye, the two bigger men pound the smaller guy in the chest and face, throwing punches with the full force of their malice. Their brutal undercuts -- bent arms making “L's”, grunts evoking the feel of sweaty manual labor -- lack athletic artistry or finesse. This is not the “sweet science” savored by fight fans, but rather an exhausting task carried out with a determined, workmanlike quality.
In a modern, streamlined age, this ancient and seemingly timeless rite looks strangely tiresome and archaic. Aren't there martial artist-devised, ergonomically efficient hand chops and finger jabs that would make “working a guy over” on the sidewalk a breeze? And furthermore, isn't anyone going to stop and do anything? Cars stream by on Sunset, no cops among them. I wonder if the Weekly's security cameras will cause an employee to come running out, perhaps brandishing an extra-sharp antiquated fountain pen or bulky stapler, but no such luck. I momentarily consider intervening, but I happen to be dressed in particularly formal, more expensive clothing this day and my instincts tell me that, like Discovery Channel hosts and the crew of the USS Enterprise, I must let this event of nature run its course and not interfere.
Penelope adds a perfectly timed: “Adam. WHAT is that SOUND?” in the curious, somewhat agitated voice of the sensible 'straight-man' in a two-person comedy routine. It is, unintentionally, a hilarious moment, especially when I reply: “Two guys are beating the absolute hell out of another guy right here on the sidewalk. Like literally three feet away from me” and then she responds: “Adam, get AWAY from there!” in a motherly protective voice, as if commanding me to stop playing with fireworks or poisonous spiders.
In this blur of activity, the little man seems to ward off, avoid or absorb most of the punishment. If he is seriously hurt, he doesn't show it. Maybe he's riding it out temporarily on an adrenaline high, or maybe his tolerance for punishment is considerable and these guys just aren't good enough violent henchmen to do the job. The victim is lean, almost gaunt, and has slightly spiky hair and a leathery, experience-battered face. This is a guy who can squirm and claw his way out of a corner with the best of them. He takes the confrontation to the middle of the sidewalk, where he has more room to maneuver, and then manages to push the bigger guys back a few times with furious, feral swings of his scrappy fists.
A young lady -- seemingly the victim's lady friend- appears out of nowhere and shouts and shrieks at the two burly miscreants manhandling her beloved. After a couple more haphazard violent flurries, the situation grinds rather uneventfully to a stalemate. The diminutive gent and his lady continue east down Sunset and the two guys remain in place, hands on knees, getting their breath. This is exhaustive business.
One of them -- skull T-shirt -- suddenly jogs toward me. I wonder what he makes of this collared-shirt-and-tie gringo yakking on the phone through the whole attack-- but I'm not really scared. He blurts out, with genuine concern: “Dude jumped my buddy's seven year old cousin, man. That's why we jumped him.” “A SEVEN year old?” I reply with something approaching amazement. “Yeah, man! I know. It's sick!” Maybe his story is true. Maybe it's the fabrication a street sociopath. Who knows. But I am oddly delighted that he feels the need to justify the attack to me, as conscience has to be one of the primary building blocks of civilization. As for Penelope, I suspect she thinks I'm hanging out with the wrong people.
