We all have that one moment in our life that we wish we could go back and change, that one incident that freezes time. People stare, mothers cover their children's eyes and ears as if to block the echoing instant. Things are dropped along with jaws on the ground and you go from being another unknown face to the center of attention in a crowded subway station. Sometimes there is a period of escalation first to draw attention to you, to gather a crowd. Gawkers and tourists whipping out cameras like the gunslingers of the Wild West hoping for a story to tell friends and families. This is one of those occurrences... and I can say, thankfully, it did not happen to me.
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'Hey! Watch out fatty!' I looked over my shoulder at my friend trailing behind me at Penn Station. He was coming out from Long Island for the night to check out a party at a club in the Meat Packing District. A new club. A trendy club. A club we weren't going to get into as he was wearing jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt.
Quick background on Dave. Great guy, great heart... just prone to sever episodes of idiocy. Like, when you are approaching the line with someone, and you dance back to avoid crossing... Dave jumps over and does a jig on the other side. An Irish jig. Pale and redheaded, tall and thin, he resembled a wooden match a little too accurately, complete with potential combustibility.
Apparently he had bounced off some woman in the shoulder-to-shoulder slaughterhouse packing of Penn Station during rush hour. Why he didn't shrug it off is unknown to me, even hours later he couldn't come up with an excusable answer... but he mighta still been in shock.
Back to commentary:
'Hey! Watch out fatty!'
The woman swung around, eye's flashing terribly. She was a large woman, mumu covered. Think the floral print one on Homer in that Simpson's episode, in red. Heaving breasts the size of my head, wiggling jowls and think bushy eyebrows with accompanying mustache. Italian. Oh shit.
'What. Did. You. Say?' Her voice froze my heart and like a salmon I tried working my way against the crowd.
'I said get out of my,' He paused, his statement amended. Thank Christ. 'FATTTTTTTTY.'
Why?!
'You lousy, good for nothing piece of trash!' Her body shaking, rippling out in waves with each syllable. 'Why do you think you are?!'
'Someone it might take you at least two sitting to eat?'
By now a crowd was forming, edging out like a mosh-pit at a concert... they didn't want to be in the way. The woman dropped her bags and put her hands on what I can only imagine were her hips. She cocked her head confidently and dropped her bomb. 'I'm fucking pregnant you asshole.'
Now, any other person, should they have been dumb enough to escalate this encounter would have backed off, put their tail between their legs and apologized. But, then Dave only shrugged and responded, 'Octuplets? Or have you started naming the rolls of fat?'
There was an actual audible gasp from the audience. But did anyone step forward to put an end to this? No. Did the sizable circle keep me from interfering? Yes.
'A baby. One who will be raised with manners, and not as some snot nosed prick.' She took a menacing step forward, and the crowd's eyes opened. I heard camera's clicking and people pulling out cell phones. 'One who will not be the son of a drunk, abusive, stupid fucking father and whore of an Irish mother that lets her dirty, foul mouthed, fuck head of a son run around on his own without any respect for his elders.'
'Shut up about my parents, bitch,' I could see Dave's hands clenching and I could only watch in horror from two rows back.
'Why? Mom and daddy not love you enough? Or daddy love you too much and fuck you up the ass every other night with his whisky bottle?'
'Shut it cunt, or I'll shut it for you.' Another gasp at the 'C word,' she can call him every name under the sun and accuse his father of anally raping him... but he gets a gasp for the 'C word?'
She was in his face now, jowls jangling in front of his eyes, saliva spraying in his face, her sizable girth pressed against him. Her heavy breathe coating him with each annunciation, 'Fuck. Off. FagGOT.'
FUDUMP!
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
It was like slow motion, the hand connecting with her face temporarily obscured as her loose skin enfolded it in a cheek embrace. Her head worked to the side, spraying spittle and sweat across the front row of spectators, vaguely reminiscent of a Sea World show.
Silence.
Silence.
SLOSH. A small puddle was beneath her.
Oh please God no.
'My WATER BROKE!' Pandemonium. People yelling. Cops pushing. My friend grabbed her and lowered her to the floor. Talking to her and comforting, he had just went through childbirth with his mother. He had me whip out my cell and call her husband. It was like black and white. He took charge of the situation and we followed her to the hospital in a taxi.
Three hours later she had a healthy baby boy. Twenty-one inches, eleven pounds. Her husband let us see it after he calmed down and realized my friend had taken control of the situation, and it seemed like we were the only 'friends/family' there. He was glowing.
My friend still goes over to their place for dinner... the name of the kid? Dave.
I shit you not, though the name was chosen beforehand. But still crazy.
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'Hey! Watch out fatty!' I looked over my shoulder at my friend trailing behind me at Penn Station. He was coming out from Long Island for the night to check out a party at a club in the Meat Packing District. A new club. A trendy club. A club we weren't going to get into as he was wearing jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt.
Quick background on Dave. Great guy, great heart... just prone to sever episodes of idiocy. Like, when you are approaching the line with someone, and you dance back to avoid crossing... Dave jumps over and does a jig on the other side. An Irish jig. Pale and redheaded, tall and thin, he resembled a wooden match a little too accurately, complete with potential combustibility.
Apparently he had bounced off some woman in the shoulder-to-shoulder slaughterhouse packing of Penn Station during rush hour. Why he didn't shrug it off is unknown to me, even hours later he couldn't come up with an excusable answer... but he mighta still been in shock.
Back to commentary:
'Hey! Watch out fatty!'
The woman swung around, eye's flashing terribly. She was a large woman, mumu covered. Think the floral print one on Homer in that Simpson's episode, in red. Heaving breasts the size of my head, wiggling jowls and think bushy eyebrows with accompanying mustache. Italian. Oh shit.
'What. Did. You. Say?' Her voice froze my heart and like a salmon I tried working my way against the crowd.
'I said get out of my,' He paused, his statement amended. Thank Christ. 'FATTTTTTTTY.'
Why?!
'You lousy, good for nothing piece of trash!' Her body shaking, rippling out in waves with each syllable. 'Why do you think you are?!'
'Someone it might take you at least two sitting to eat?'
By now a crowd was forming, edging out like a mosh-pit at a concert... they didn't want to be in the way. The woman dropped her bags and put her hands on what I can only imagine were her hips. She cocked her head confidently and dropped her bomb. 'I'm fucking pregnant you asshole.'
Now, any other person, should they have been dumb enough to escalate this encounter would have backed off, put their tail between their legs and apologized. But, then Dave only shrugged and responded, 'Octuplets? Or have you started naming the rolls of fat?'
There was an actual audible gasp from the audience. But did anyone step forward to put an end to this? No. Did the sizable circle keep me from interfering? Yes.
'A baby. One who will be raised with manners, and not as some snot nosed prick.' She took a menacing step forward, and the crowd's eyes opened. I heard camera's clicking and people pulling out cell phones. 'One who will not be the son of a drunk, abusive, stupid fucking father and whore of an Irish mother that lets her dirty, foul mouthed, fuck head of a son run around on his own without any respect for his elders.'
'Shut up about my parents, bitch,' I could see Dave's hands clenching and I could only watch in horror from two rows back.
'Why? Mom and daddy not love you enough? Or daddy love you too much and fuck you up the ass every other night with his whisky bottle?'
'Shut it cunt, or I'll shut it for you.' Another gasp at the 'C word,' she can call him every name under the sun and accuse his father of anally raping him... but he gets a gasp for the 'C word?'
She was in his face now, jowls jangling in front of his eyes, saliva spraying in his face, her sizable girth pressed against him. Her heavy breathe coating him with each annunciation, 'Fuck. Off. FagGOT.'
FUDUMP!
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
It was like slow motion, the hand connecting with her face temporarily obscured as her loose skin enfolded it in a cheek embrace. Her head worked to the side, spraying spittle and sweat across the front row of spectators, vaguely reminiscent of a Sea World show.
Silence.
Silence.
SLOSH. A small puddle was beneath her.
Oh please God no.
'My WATER BROKE!' Pandemonium. People yelling. Cops pushing. My friend grabbed her and lowered her to the floor. Talking to her and comforting, he had just went through childbirth with his mother. He had me whip out my cell and call her husband. It was like black and white. He took charge of the situation and we followed her to the hospital in a taxi.
Three hours later she had a healthy baby boy. Twenty-one inches, eleven pounds. Her husband let us see it after he calmed down and realized my friend had taken control of the situation, and it seemed like we were the only 'friends/family' there. He was glowing.
My friend still goes over to their place for dinner... the name of the kid? Dave.
I shit you not, though the name was chosen beforehand. But still crazy.
