And I tried to hang in there attention-wise, but when I heard a loud and angry voice I got distracted, and turned to see a guy who was heading for the front door, speaking over his shoulder in a rather abrasive manner. And he had Crazy Eyes. I wondered what that was about. Then I saw a young guy following after the loud fellow, and I asked him if everything was okay. He gave me a vague on-the-spectrum kind of answer, then went to the store window to watch the loud guy depart.
A few minutes later, the young guy had gone back to sit with his two equally young female friends.
And a few minutes later, the loud guy came back into Heine Brothers and I couldn't help but notice that he went directly to where the three young people were sitting. He wasn't being loud anymore, but he was sitting very close--a couple of feet away at most--to their table, and he was staring hard at one of the girls. The young guy got up and walked away for a minute, then walked back and told the formerly loud guy that the police were coming. The f.l. guy didn't move, just kept staring at one of the girls. Then he reached over and touched her on the shoulder, and I could see that she was telling him not to touch her.
There was a split second when I wondered if I should get involved, whether it could be dangerous, allathat . . . and thinking that the police were on the way and that they would handle it, no need--
Fortunately, my feet didn't wait for my brain to catch up. I had already walked over. And I acted super friendly and asked the f.l. guy how he was doing, was everything alright, would he come outside and talk to me. And he did right away. And I chatted with him for a minute, then he said he had to go and walked off down the street.
I came back into the store and went over to the young people to tell them that the guy was gone and not to worry, and that if he came back I would head him off.
I went back to my friends, who were still talking to our m.a., briefly told them what had happened, then looked up to see that the f.l. guy was just about to re-re-enter the store. I intercepted him just inside the door, and then a really buff guy in a Waffle House uniform joined me, and we got the guy outside again. And then the police arrived.
Apparently the guy was a regular Mentally Ill Person Who Aggressively Harasses and Sometimes Physically Attacks People on the Bardstown Road Corridor person.
*
That was more or less where that story was going to end. It was a Sometimes You Have to Get Involved--Even If You're Scared--Story.
But one of the few things I know about writing is that you are always at your best when you tell the truth. Whether it's a novel, a poem, a song, or a personal narrative . . . you're better off getting at the truth.
And I hadn't told the complete truth. Partially because I thought I was streamlining the story. Partly because I didn't really realize that my friend had hurt my feelings until I'd finished writing the story, so I hadn't gotten to that at all.
So a minor omission first. After I got the guy to go outside with me and thought that he had gone on his way and came back in and went up to the three kids, I could tell that the girl he had touched was really worried that the guy was going to come back and have another go at her. So I didn't actually say that I would "head him off" if he came back. I said, "And if he does come back, I'll kick his ass."
I said it to reassure her. Not because I think I'm a bad ass. In fact, I will categorically state for the record that I am not--nor have I ever been--a bad ass. Although I will admit that I was pleased when the girl smiled and said, "You look like you could." But come on . . . who doesn't want a compliment from a fair young maiden? Let he who is without testosterone cast the first stone. My aim was to make her feel safe, and I succeeded.
The other part of the story wasn't really left out . . . I just ended the story without including it.
After the police had come and taken the scary f.l. crazy guy away, one of the baristas came over to me and thanked me for helping out and chatted with me for awhile, and then I sat back down with my friends . . . who were still talking to the m.a. . After she left, though, my friend C. started asking about the f.l. guy, and then he turned to his woman and said, "I notice that Thomas got a lot tougher after that weight-lifter Waffle House guy got involved."
And I'm pretty sure that he was just razzing me, but I'm not completely sure . . . and even if he was, I still think it was a sucky thing to say. For one thing, because that's not what happened. For another thing because I didn't tell the story in any way to exalt myself. I just told C. what had happened when he asked about it.
And the thing of it is, I actually felt good about myself knowing that at least in this minor threat situation I was willing to put myself out there to stand up for someone who needed help. And with a few casual words, C. took some of that away. That's my problem, of course. I could have told him off then and there. Or I could just brush his words off as (1) a poor joke or (2) a stupid remark. Or maybe even (3) he felt ashamed that he hadn't taken part and was trying to play it off with his woman. Men do shit like that. I could even have pushed a little harder and asked him directly, Where the fuck were you when all of this was going on? Hiding behind your mommy's skirts?
But that's just some anger talking.
So I think this turns out to be a story about not fucking around with people. C. will never know that he hurt my feelings . . . because I'll never tell him. For one thing, because I know that he'd feel shitty about that, and I don't want to make him feel shitty. For another thing, because if somebody upsets you, I think you owe it to them and to yourself to address it right away so that it doesn't settle in and start to fester. And if you don't do that, you should just let it go.
So I'm going to let it go now.
Try to, anyway.
Sigh.
You know, there really just needs to be one commandment: Thou Shalt Not Be An Asshole.
Reminds me of the time a college guy who was observing my class asked me what I thought was the most important quality in being a good teacher. I told him it was Try Not to Be An Asshole. And I really meant it, too.
Trying not to be an asshole puts you way ahead in the human race.
Sad, ennit?
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