Post #33: Rockfight

Anton Chekhov believed that every element of a story should contribute to the whole. "If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise, don't put it there."

A month ago, I was sitting in my driveway, talking to my neighbor. We were talking about fights in Barbados. I was curious to know how the men here typically behaved when a fight broke out. Did they throw fists? Was anyone quick to grab a knife? How often did shootings happen? Ever see some wild shit? She laughed and said that none of those things happened all that often on the island. She went on to note that of the three or four fights she had witnessed in her life, all of the men picked up a rock to use as a weapon. "Huh," I thought to myself at the time. "Good to know."

Fast forward to this morning.

I've been trying to get a new routine down since restrictions have loosened and gyms were allowed to re-open. I settled on this: waking up a little earlier, walking two miles to the gym, working out for about half an hour to forty-five minutes, trekking back home, taking Roo out for his morning business, and then starting up my day. Today was no different. I woke up a little early. I walked to the gym. I worked out.

Here's where the routine deviates.

Keep in mind that this is around 7:45am on a weekday. People are commuting to work. Food vendors are setting up. Grocery stores are sweeping their entrances. Buses and taxis are jostling for passengers. So there are people milling around. Not a lot of people just yet, but enough. Along the coast road, there is a corner where the fish market ends and the food stalls begin, cut in half by a wide driveway that accommodates all the delivery trucks that go in and out throughout the day. As I approach this corner, I see some quick movement to my right and then I hear a loud BANG!

Immediately I duck and cover.
I know that BANG! I've heard that BANG! before.

I look to my right and fully expect to see someone holding a gun. Instead, I see a tall, slender man in a red shirt hefting a rock in his left hand, and taking aim with a second rock in his right. About twenty feet in front of him, there is a man in a blue polo shirt, cowering behind a tree. 

"Phew, ok, so that wasn't a gunshot."

Then the next thought hits me.

"Jesus Christ, that guy threw a rock hard enough to sound like a gunshot."

Behind the cowering man in the blue polo, I can see a hole in the shutter of the food stall. Red Shirt had smashed the shutter with that first throw. The hole is about the size of a softball. He was aiming to take off Blue Polo's head with his second throw.

A portly man in a green and black striped shirt rushes toward Red Shirt, pleading with him to stop. He stands between Red Shirt and Blue Polo, arms raised and outstretched, repeating that someone could get hurt. Without thinking, I rush over and join in the chorus.

Blue Polo and Red Shirt are circling away from each other, so Blue Polo is drifting toward me. I step in front of him and put my hands up, asking him to stop. He is holding a rock in either hand. In his left hand, he is also holding a knife. The knife looks like it's used for boning fish. Everything about Blue Polo is shabby: his eyes are cocked like a drunk's, his clothes are dirty, he has a smell. But that knife looks like it's brand-new. That knife is not wanting for attention. As I plead with Blue Polo, I watch his eyes and I watch that knife. I can see from his eyes that he isn't concerned with me - only with Red Shirt. He's making sure a second rock isn't coming his way.

Eventually, a larger crowd gathers. Four or five people surround each man and they drop their rocks. Satisfied that the locals can take it from here, I continue on my way. I lose my thoughts in avoiding the traffic on the street (sidewalks being a sporadic luxury in Barbados) and make it to the road that curves the beach and brings me home. My mind wanders back to my days as a bouncer and as a bartender. Reflexes become instincts when practiced enough - running toward a fight is what I've always done. It was my duty for years to break up and stop fights. I guess that mentality never went away. I was surprised at how little I thought of my own safety, how ugly that situation could have become, how unnecessary a risk it was on my part. But we don't get better by letting each other tear ourselves apart, and I don't care how naïve that makes me sound.