His head and neck lit up with nauseating pain as the cast iron fire poker, the same one she had used to stab the Spanish guy, slammed into the back of his head and spun over his shoulder to clatter heavily on the concrete. He spared a glance as he crawled to his knees. She was standing naked and vomit-covered in the yard screaming obscenities at him. He was on his knees, dragging his tool belt, crawling, nothing left to puke.

On top of her screaming there was more racket. Mister Charles and his wife had been sitting out back. The next thing he knew Mister Charles was yelling, “Ouch, shit, fuck, dat hurts, Baby!” as the sound of a trash can lid hitting a big shoulder added to the din. Miss Jeraldine was screaming, “So dat what you want, nigga! Ha! You want dat young caramel-dipped pussy, nigga!”

He was on his hands and knees crawling. Then he heard the house door slam and Mister Charles grabbed him up and ran down the alley with him in one hand.

“I got ya, Jay Jay. We gettin’ clear a dis shit hea’! Dat big titty bitch a yers goin’ fo da car keys! You do not wanna end up unda dem wheels, boy.”

He woke up on the Number Eight bus, just him and his tool belt, wearing Mister Charles’ wife beater that fit him like a giant dress. He looked up to see Bessandra’s big neighbor, who was in a cheerful mood, smiling as he drawled, “Son you loogin’ none-too-good fo’ da wear. It had ta be worth it dough. Good goog-a-moog, I knows it were worth my whoopin’ jus ta ged a peek! Sorry ‘bout da shirt—bus driver don’t truck in no shirtless riders.”

He tried to say thanks but nothing came out. Eventually Mister Charles let him off in front of a hospital. He just sat out front until the security made him leave, as he had no wallet, no insurance, just his tool belt, and the worst headache of his young life. He looked at himself in the mirror of a parked car as day broke over the city skyline.

“At least I have a job!”