Interviewed on the #36 Bus, 7/27/17
Little Dave is about 5' 3", 140 pounds, tattooed, with slightly curled hair to his neck.
My father was a real piece-of-shit, never showed me nothin’. But my stepdad, he used to box. He taught me to punch, to sneak with the left ‘cause they expectin’ the right and to fight when confronted. He would beat me up if I came home without fighting back. Man’s gotta fight. I have lost about half my hearing in my left ear from people hooking me in the ear on the street. This is a town you have to fight in.
Last Friday morning, seven a.m., I was across from Valentino’s [diagonally] at Harford and Northern, waiting for the Number Nineteen bus. I sat down next to this young hopper [black teenager] and his friend, who was standing around, starting calling me “bitch,” “punk motherfucker” and “bitch-ass cracker” telling me that I have to get up and stand or he’s going to kick my ass.
He tried to get me to stand up and throw hands, but I stayed seated, pointed to the sidewalk in front of my feet, and said, “Cross that line.”
Then he spit at my face, which is a real nasty thing to do. But it missed, went over my shoulder, so I stayed put.
Then he steps up, leans in and starts shoving my chest with his left hand, expecting me to throw with my right, but I snuck him with the left [demonstrates shovel hook] as I stood. I heard the crack of the jaw like you always hear, but he had a weak jaw and fell right out, so I was on him, hitting him—punches and slaps—and he’s crying and cussing.
His friend pulled me off. So when I shook off his friend, he gets up and starts talkin’ about how he’s gonna kill me, how he’s gonna shoot me and they walked off, not even there to take the bus, but to cause trouble.
Waking Up in Indian Country: Harm City: 2015
