Last night, as I walked down the backstreets of Hamilton to Northern Parkway, I noticed Tiny Dancer, a girl whose family lives in a house at my favorite bus stop. She looks like a gymnast, tiny in her jeans and wife-beater, with short-cropped hair. I inadvertently frightened her and her girlfriend—a Frank Frazzetta chick that looked like she jumped off the cover of a Conan comic—and their large, sweet potato-shaped cock-blocker, who squealed girlishly when I passed them on the sidewalk.

I silently wished Tiny Dancer well on her little dyke date and awaited the bus, which actually seemed to be looking for me. I suppose the driver is getting lonely, with a mere 8 souls on the last bus of the night that used to carry 28.

Having foolishly committed myself to sitting on the back deck—essentially an act of suicidal self-loathing for giving up fighting, which is the only thing that ever made me feel vital—that will eventually result in a nasty fight with the worse elements that flock back there. I noticed that the patrons were all in their 30s and returning from work—not a thug in sight. It must have been prom night in the ghetto. On the bus rolled without its obligatory handful of criminals.

The phone in my pocket vibrated and I saw that it was Oliver, normally neck deep in some desperate divorcee by this time on Friday night, so, hoping all was well in Oliverland, I answered.

Oliver: How are you doing, James?

James: Currently, the only labrat on the hoodrat conveyance. I’ll be at the gym on Sunday, but won’t be sparring. I was in a car accident on I-95 yesterday and have some torn intercostals, maybe a compressed cartilage. Wearing the backpack tonight was not a good idea. How about you?

Oliver: James, do you ever get the feeling that you’re not as mature as you thought you were?

James: Yeah, like three minutes ago. It’s a daily occurrence at this point. So, the beard isn’t growing in well?

Oliver: James, today I was driving a client, a really good guy who I have done a lot of work for. He was in the backseat as we are headed across Northern Parkway to Falls Road. Then the car in front pulls up short, so I have to stop and the guy behind me bumps the curb and was really pissed about it and started shouting. I just kept my eyes forward, even when he pulls up alongside me and starts telling me to pull over, calling me a bitch, telling me he’s going to kick my ass. I didn’t respond, just kept driving…and he would not let up, just kept at it.

James: So he was an Asian guy?

Oliver: No.

James: A Jewish dude?

Oliver: No.

James: You’re kidding me. You mean we still have regular white-boys over their on the West Side picking fights with a hard working brother?

Oliver: He wasn’t white, James. You know who he was.

James: Okay, please tell me you didn’t drop him on his head.

Oliver: I just don’t get how these guys can be so confident.

James: It’s the low IQ.

Oliver: So he could have gone at the light, but stays there in front of me so he can continue this shit. Finally, I cracked the door just to let him know I wasn’t backing down. You know how some people believe God tests you like this? Well, I believe in karma, and think that maybe God put me there to shut this guy up. Then my client notices the door is cracked and says something about this being a scary situation, so I closed it, and then the guy really pops off with calling me a bitch and telling me he’s going to come over there and snatch me out of my car, so I look back ahead. You know, I really wanted to snatch this guy up and lay him out. But I’m glad I didn’t. Not only would I have lost this client but a State Trooper rolled by like a minute later

James: You have to realize that some yo on the street is going to go down within seconds. In 20 seconds you’re probably dragging this guy’s body onto the median, and that is about when witnesses start to see stuff. Never respond to a challenge, you’ll look like the aggressor almost immediately. Cameras come out and there you are, looking like a child abuser on the side of the road. Only put them down if they touch you.

Oliver: But why me, why did he select me? I don’t have much of an ego left. I don’t even knock guys out that I know can’t take it while their beating my ass sparring. I just don’t want to give ground like that. I don’t grille people or anything.

[Actually, Oliver has a very kind, open face. One would never guess he was a fighter to look into his face unless you’ve been in boxing gyms and recognize the sleepy look.]

James: The client, was he white?

Oliver: Yes, an older dude in his mid-forties.

James: The punk didn’t look at or threaten the client did he? Would he have gone after this client if he were by himself?

Oliver: Hell no!

James: He was counting on the white man talking you out of fighting, so had a pretty clear shot at punking you out. You aren’t used to this because black chicks like to see their men fight. But when you’re with most white women, punks will come out of the woodwork to make threats they won’t have to backup, because they know your bitch will not support you. If Fred Sanford [the cantankerous junkyard operator played on TV by black comedian Red Foxx circa 1980] was in the back seat, do you think this punk would have called you out?

Oliver: No, not at all.

James: The important thing is you didn’t take the bait. In a just world he dies on his knees. But we live in a corrupt society and have to be able to deal with The State’s preference for evil.

Oliver: Thanks, James. You know there is another edition of Hidden Colors coming out in theaters.

James: Cool, how about if I take a bucket of Kentucky fried chicken to the theatre?

Oliver: How about if you watch it with Erique and me at my place over a few drinks?

James: Sure.

Oliver: Be safe, James.

James: See you on Sunday, Bro.

One other person offloaded with me, and was met by her escort—few people in Essex walking alone at night anymore—as other bus patrons waited for cabs or hacks. I saw the first County Cop cruising on Old Eastern Avenue in 13 months. He pulled over a motorist who was not speeding, presumably for some other violation, 100 feet short of two young thugs who were exchanging something under the waving branches of the night-shrouded trees on the sidewalk across from the crab house, right in his headlights.

I suppose the lesson of the night is that a man must pick his battles.