XMAS EVE 2000 A.D.

Tonight, while shopping for vermouth, I was punched in the face by a homeless person selling Street Sheets on the southwest corner of Fourth and Mission in downtown San Francisco.

I walked out of the Jack in the Box already drunk, singing “Winter Wonderland” Á la Elvis Presley, slurring the words only somewhat intentionally.

Standing at the corner waiting for the light to change, I belched, loudly and unapologetically. The bum, standing in my immediate vicinity, took umbrage. Towering next to me, he barked, “Ey mayeng . . . don’ be belchin’ in mah face like dat!”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch.” My unthinking and immediate response.

WHAM.

When he hit me, I was actually surprised. I laughed and mocked him as I went for my brass knuckles. “You think a homeless BITCH can hurt me?!”

Truth is, I was stunned. My arms loaded with paper bags, bottles clinking, he’d just sucker-punched me, a straight jab to the mouth. My pockets were stuffed with jalapeno poppers; I didn’t have that instant access to my weapon, and he saw me going for it.

“Pull dat shit out and see what happen,” he crowed, agitated as fuck now. Walking off quickly as a crowd began to form, he darted into the alley, joining the indistinct figures of other homeless milling about in the shadows.

I’m shaken up. I duck into a nearby restaurant and enter the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I discover a large bruise already forming on my mouth. Trembling, vacillating between rage and tears, I reach up and gingerly touch the spot.

It isn’t a bruise. It’s just dirt from his grimy-ass hand. I wipe it off.

I place my palms facedown on the counter and hang my head with a sigh. Diana, my girlfriend of four years, is leaving me, moving to Los Angeles in ten days, ostensibly to pursue her “music career.”

Merry Fucking Christmas.

© 2011 Real Social Dynamics,