This is a story about how I beat a grubby ho down last week, and lived to tell the tale. Not to be confused with a grubby hoedown, which would make it a very different story, indeed.
My overheated, overworked, nicotine-deprived, unbalanced, PMS-having self was standing on 4th Avenue--arguably one of the busier 4-lane, one-way streets in Seattle--when a guy (man, boy, crackhead, whatever) walked past me and said, "Nice jar of oils." Hold on a second, let me back up so you can get the whole story:
I had a nice jar of oils with me.
After giving my boss a manicure/pedicure, I was allowed to choose any three products from the retail area (a very generous tip, since those three equaled $100 bucks or so), and one of the products I chose was our yummy sea salt scrub. After work, I was waiting for the Esq to scoop me up, and didn't have room for the scrub in my bag, so I set it on one of the big concrete planters that line 4th Avenue. This kid--this scrubby, emaciated, drugged-up street urchin--walked past me and said, "Nice jar of oils", while reaching for it. I said, "Please don't touch my shit"--I thought the 'please' was nice enough, but he looked back at me and said, "Whatever!" A minute later, I was texting someone when he came back my way, fast, and grabbed the jar--he was trying to steal it from me! With my hands full, my only reaction--my only choice, really--was to put my foot in his ass and kick him into the street.
Not literally IN his ass, because he didn't really have one, and not into the street like "a street filled with vehicular danger"; yes, the street is busy, but I kicked him into what I call the Sort-Of Safety Lane. The Sort-Of Safety Lane is the lane people illegally park in while waiting to pick up their loved ones from work, the spa, or a meth deal (in my case, all three). Plus, the Esq just bought me new work shoes that are really expensive and totally boss, so I wouldn't deign to ruin them in some crackhead's garbage-riddled asshole.
Anyways. The street urchin yelled, "Heyyy!" as though I'd offended his delicate sensibilities, and a crotchety old black woman (or should I say, 'crotchety old black witness') across the street shouted, "You coulda kilt that boeh!" I bent down, wrenched my salt scrub out of his hands--which I have now dubbed The Sea Salt Scrub of Justice--screamed "GOOOOD!" at the lady, and screamed louder at the kid, "DON'T STEAL MY FUCKING SHIT!"
Upon reflection, this is not what I should have said. Shit can't fuck; screaming silly phrases at a bedraggled sewer rat is desultory. It made no impact at all. Why couldn't I have shrieked a perfect movie line? Something cool, like, "And let that be a lesson to you!" or "I know a guy who knows karate!", or, "I'm going to follow you home and kill you in your sleep, and then I'll kill your parents and eat all your food." But no. I didn't say those things. It's not like I'm The Fonz; one-liners don't just appear out of the sky. You have to work for them.
Moral of the story: don't steal my