Battle of the Bitches
Tacuma Roeback
They were damn near going to kill each other with their elongated fingernails. I wanted to laugh out loud at them, but my shame wouldn't let me. I sat back and watched, just as the other 20 people standing outside of a hotel bar just north of downtown Chicago had. The shrill of Lake Michigan's breath was muted by the screaming; the skinny silhouettes of these women, shadows touching, were nearly a penumbra over the 2 a.m. chocolate sky. Nothing else but this could be seen.
"I'm a fucking kill your little Black ass, bitch. You gonna get shot, little ass bitch."
"What bitch? I'll slice up your fucking face."
Half of the people out there viewing the cat fight either came from the bar or were patrons who could afford the $450-a-night stay.
The insults flew as well as the weave one of the combatants wore, a blond thing that looked like a piece of my grandmother's shag carpet. It was the only thing that the streetlights illuminated.
"You tryna' flex bitch, I'll kick your ass?" The woman without the weave yelled.
"I'd like to see yo' ass try it, slut." The weave woman fired back.
Then amid those silhouettes, the tall figure of a man appeared. He wore a baseball hat and had a protruding belly.
It looked like he put his arm around the woman who wasn't wearing the weave.
"You better get your boyfriend to get you outta here before I kick your ass?" The weave wearing woman steps closer to them.
"Why don't you shut the fuck up, bitch?" This time, the man jumped in. "You wanna fuck wit' me," he said, still holding on to his girlfriend.
"Get your fucking man; I'll get his ass shot!"
"What, bitch," the boyfriend and his girl yelled out in unison.
This went on for a few more minutes. I turned away to gauge everybody's reaction. That's when I heard a thump.
I turned around. Those silhouettes were tangled: thrashing, jerking movements and fists. A gaggle of people flew out of the doors of the hotel, doubling the amount of folks who were already out there, mostly women. And all but one of those ladies went to the aid of the woman who had her boyfriend with her. By now, that woman had grabbed the other woman's weave. The other women joined. One of them balled up her fist, and swung her arm like she was throwing a baseball. She connected on the poor woman who had her weave snatched. It looked like she got her in the face. That woman fell to the ground. The shadows then jumped on her with legs and more fists.
"See bitch das what happens," yelled the boyfriend.
The jumping shadows stopped. They walked in the direction of the lakefront laughing and talking loudly.
"That bitch cool now," I heard someone from that group say.
Moments later a woman rushed over to the falling girl. I decided to walk up closer, close enough to see what damage was done, but far away enough to not be anyone's business.
The girl's nose had been busted. Her left eye looked like a balcony that protruded from a building. Her lips were swollen and bloodied as well. What's worse was that a few tracks of hair had been ripped from her head. I only knew this because a guy came over, held them up, ran around and laughed. A part of me wanted to laugh. Finally, two men from the crowd pulled her up. (They were about 33 minutes too late.) She seemed groggy from all of those blows. Before she could stumble and fall to the ground, they held the girl up by her shoulders and walked her and her friend to the car. I looked around and saw a gray-haired white man with tiny eyes and a strong jaw line. That pang of shame welled up in me. I was angry, but only because I superimposed my thoughts on his. "Fuckin' niggers, can't take 'em anywhere. They act like animals."
Briefly, I was angry with myself, for not stepping in to stop the fight. That went away when I thought of a high school acquaintance. He was barely six months out of high school when he was killed for stepping between two men at a high school basketball game. He was shot in the head five times. According to a newspaper report, his head was three times its usual size. Peacemakers get killed. I'm sure that's what all of the other guys were thinking.
After 10 minutes of standing outside, I went back in. My homeboy, who had been chatting it up with this voluptuous chocolate beauty at the bar, stopped what he was doing and came up to me.
"Yo, T, where you been? You was up on some chick, wasn't you?"
"Nah, man," I felt tired. The words tumbled out of my mouth.
"I won't tell," he said, knowing I had a girlfriend back home.
"Nah, man. There was just these two chicks battling."
"Yeah, I heard, man."
I walked over with him. He introduced me to his lady friend and went to the bathroom.
She looked me up and down.
"You okay? It look like you in pain."
"Nah, I'm alright."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I just need a drink."
"Something happen."
"Yeah, it's not a big deal. Couldn't do anything about it anyway," I said, faking a smile that made my stomach hurt.