She Don't Like Hecklers by Greg Bardsley
"Hey asshole.”
I ignored the comment and kept pedaling. That couldn't be for me.
This time he was right behind me. “Hey.”
I glided to a stop and turned around. I didn't immediately recognize him; he was short and doughy, and really fair. Then I noticed the big gap in his front teeth.
Oh, yeah. This guy.
It was too late by the time I saw the fist.
* * * *
I was sucking wind, struggling to breath.
“Remember me?”
The fist had gotten me in the throat, and now he was on top of my chest, his face over mine, his hands pinning my wrists to the asphalt. My cruiser lay beside us, wheels spinning.
“Last week?”
Last week. That would have been when I stood there, stunned, as my new girlfriend Gina Dean beat the shit out of this guy, kicking him in the mouth, launching a tooth skyward. He'd been heckling her, making comments about her ass, and Gina didn't like hecklers.
“You thought I'd let that go?”
Finally, I was able to draw in a breath, and I noticed his frat buddies watching us, exchanging light comments, hands in their pockets.
“When your psycho bitch did this to me, she did it to my entire fraternity, all my brothers.”
Maybe it was that term, psycho bitch. Maybe it was because I had gotten my breath back and was over the shock. Maybe it was because I now had permission to feel my anger and release it the way guys could. Whatever the trigger, I rolled him over, slammed the front of my elbow into his nose, pulled him up and ran him into a parked Celica, cheek to fender.
And then it was quiet.
* * * *
I sat on the curb around the corner from my house, panting, trying to collect myself, marvelling at how I had gotten the hell out of there without any of his buddies jumping in. Was it possible that I had been so pissed off so quickly -- so able to tap into a current of rage right under the surface, so effortless in my violence -- that it was enough to scare the others? Or was my assailant such a dick that the guys who knew him best didn't mind seeing him get beat up?
I really hoped it was the latter. I didn't want to be the pissed-off guy who scared people, the guy with issues. I really didn't.
* * * *
A couple of days later I was on the porch nursing a Red Hook when I got a call from University Police Sergeant Manny Diaz. The sergeant and I knew each other from my work on the student newspaper. We got along okay.
He said, “I want you and Dean to stay away from the Connelly kid.”
The Connelly kid? Semantics. Gina Dean and I were calling him Puffy.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You're spending your time on crap like this?”
He sighed.
“How do you even know about it?”
“Got a call from some prick in Malibu, the Connelly family lawyer, I guess.” Diaz sounded annoyed. “They want you and Dean expelled.”
I took a pull off my Red Hook and watched the students cruise by, kind of laughing to myself, but not really. “So we're back in junior high now.”
“And one last thing.” He paused. “What do you know about your girl siccing some giant parolee on Connelly? Some big freak.”
I leaned back and took another pull of Extra Special Bitter, grinning to myself.
My girl.
Gina.
* * * *
Gina didn't like hecklers. Did I mention that?
And she didn't like hecklers who couldn't catch a clue even after losing a tooth, especially if they were rich and puffy hecklers who proceeded to take cheap shots at her boyfriend, which was why she had started making some calls to contacts in Oakland and eventually recruited a bored Raiders fan to come up and fuck with, and then rob, Puffy. A 300-pound, hairy Raiders fan named Cujo -- a real piece of work, a guy who liked to get high on peyote and house cleaners and then go screw with people.
The other day, Cujo and his sidekick Angel had “taken” Puffy for a night of “fun.” The details were sketchy -- something about Cujo treating Puffy to a 45-minute headlock up in the woods, followed by some kind of “crocodilian death roll” in a nearby creek, only Puffy didn't die. The way I saw things, it was better if I didn't know the details.
As I said, Gina didn't like hecklers.
* * * *
That night, Gina was straddling me on the couch, biting and sucking on my lower lip, when I pulled away and looked into her caramel eyes, the eyes half-shrouded by her silky brown hair, the hair falling over that perfect face with the open-mouthed smile. “Cujo came by,” I said. “There's this biker party tonight. Some place on 20th Street. Says he's gonna pull out the peyote.”
Gina frowned and laughed. “Bikers?”
“They invited him, I guess, and I'm worried. I think he's gonna snag Puffy again.”
She straightened and frowned. “You're worried? Why the fuck should you care about Cujo, Puffers and a biker party?”
“I'm just-”
“What?” Gina went back to kissing me, pulling gently on my lower lip with her teeth and letting go -- over and over. She rubbed against me long and slow and gave my lip one final pull, whispering, “What, Cole?”
“It's just ...”
“Fuck the biker party, Cole.” She threw the hair off her face, cocked her head sideways and began to kiss my neck. “Fuck the biker party.”
I closed my eyes and bit my lip.
Okay, fuck the biker party.
* * * *
I was in heaven.
Gina was cuddled up against me, under the covers, in the nude, totally relaxed. I had that post-orgasmic glow, that great feeling of being completely content, completely relaxed, everything just right, just minutes from sleep.
Then Puffy's face shot into my mind.
I jolted.
She rustled. “You okay?”
I pulled her in and thought about it a while. “I just have to admit ...”
“Yeah?”
I paused. “I have to admit it kinda freaks me out that this Puffy thing doesn't bother you more.”
Slowly, she sat up and examined my face. “Let me get this straight. You know he sexually harassed me right there on Warner Street.”
“I do.”
“He attacked you, and now he's trying to get you expelled, simply because you're my dude.”
I nodded and looked away. “True.”
“And he calls me a psycho bitch.”
I looked down. “Yes.”
“I don't like those kinda people, Cole Buns.”
I nodded in concession.
“ And yet you're still surprised that I could hardly give a fuck that Cujo might have him tonight?”
“Okay, okay.” I lowered my lids and pulled her to me.
She thought about it and grinned. “You're just my little choir boy cutie, aren't you?” She eased up, slid against me and ran a finger over my chest so lightly it sent shivers throughout my body. “I just don't like hecklers,” she whispered. “I just don't tolerate that shit.”
I sighed, closed my eyes and ran my fingers down her back until they rested above her rear. Gina didn't like hecklers, and that was okay by me.
My girl.
Gina.
* * * *
In the morning my phone rang, and Gina came out topless in my boxers, my bath towel wrapped around her head. “You're a popular boy.”
Please don't be the county morgue or city homicide. Please don't be Cujo.
It was the secretary for Dr. Stephen Schwartz, dean of the College of Communication. My dean. "The dean would like to speak with you in his office," she said. "Can you come now?"
"What's the problem?"
Silence, and then: "I'd suggest you get down here immediately."
* * * *
The dean was a balding man in his sixties with a goatee and tiny, European-style glasses. When I reached his office that day, he was sitting on the edge of his giant oak desk, staring at Puffy.
“What do you think, Mr. Williams?"
Puffy reminded me of a cartoon character who'd just had a bomb explode on him. Large scabs had formed on his forehead, his eyes were blackened and his clothes were caked in mud.
And he didn't seem to mind.
He was relaxing on the floor, a box of Lucky Charms between his legs, shoving handfuls of the cereal into his mouth. Chewing slowly. Crumbs stuck to his chin.
“Mark.” The dean sounded like an angry parent. "Mark, look at me."
Puffy looked up, and it seemed like he was stoned out of his mind -- his eyes mere slits, his pasty face extra-puffy. I thought of Cujo's peyote. I thought of Cujo's house-cleaning fumes.
"Mark." The dean clapped hard. "Over here."
Slowly, Puffy directed his slits to Schwartz, then up to the ceiling. It seemed like he was hallucinating, that he could see things flying up there at a speedy clip. “Duuuuuuuu-ude.” He clasped his hands under his chin and gushed. “Dude.” He giggled. “Duuuuu-ude."
The dean glanced at me. “A student found him wandering around campus this morning.” He paused and waited for some kind of reaction, and got none. “Thank God she had the mind to bring him here."
“Sir, you really need to call Sergeant Diaz with the University Police. He needs to know about this.”
The dean squared himself toward me. "I want you to tell me what the hell is going on here, mister. I want to know why a giant bald man with hairy arms and a black tank-top was circling this building for forty minutes." He noticed my reaction and added, "Yes, exactly. I know about the furry man, you bet I do."
“Sir, you need to contact Sergeant Diaz.”
The dean came closer. “Do you know who this young man is?”
I folded my arms. “We call him Puffy.”
The dean blinked. “Mark Connelly is the son of one of the most powerful businessmen and philanthropists in the state. We must handle this correctly.”
Spit bubbled through Puffy's pursed lips.
“Now tell me about the giant furry man.”
I looked at the dean, then at Puffy and then back at the dean. We stared at each other for a long stretch, until I went over and took Puffy's hand and led him out of the office.
* * * *
I had Puffy seated in the University Police lobby, where he was playing with Hot Wheels, making car noises.
“He's regressed.”
Diaz looked over at me. “Gee, really?”
“He's experienced severe trauma,” I offered. “Hence the regression to a more comforting time in his life -- his toddlerhood.”
Diaz was staring at him, shaking his head, thinking -- thinking something.
“What are you gonna do with him?” I asked.
* * * *
Gina and I walked over to Juanita's, a nearby hangout, and sat down with two pints of Sierra Nevada. They had some early Black Uhuru playing on the sound system.
“So Puffy thinks he's a toddler?”
I took a sip, stared at her lips and nodded.
“Where is he now?”
“Hospital.”
She looked away. “Well, that's too bad.”
We looked at each other awhile, thinking our own thoughts. After a while, she took my pinkie and tugged. “I think I want you pretty bad, Cole.”
I laughed. “Yeah?”
“But first, a little detour.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Something I gotta do, Cole Boy.”
* * * *
Gina bent down and gave Puffy her big, innocent eyes. “Look what I brought you!” She thrust her gift into his face. “It's a red ... shiny ... fire truck.”
Puffy bounced on his hospital bed, clasping his hands under his chin, a giant gap-toothed smile on his face. “Tuck, tuck,” he lisped.
“Listen, no hard feelings, eh?”
Puffy began to play with his new fire truck, making siren and honking noises.
“And if it makes you feel any better, I'd assume Cujo's all done with this place. You know what that means, Puffy Duffy?”
He glanced at her and returned to his fire truck. “Honk, honk.”
I leaned in and whispered. “I don't think he's getting any of this.”
“I know, but I just had to come. You know, closure.” She returned to Puffy. “I think we've learned a few things, haven't we?”
He looked up, hopeful.
“I think we've learned I don't like motorists heckling me with sexist comments.”
Puffy broke into a giant smile. “Waa.”
“And we've learned it doesn't pay to get out of your car to take a swing at a girl, haven't we?”
Happy face. “Waa.”
“And we've also learned that it's not okay to sucker-punch my guy, huh?”
“Waa.”
She straightened and smiled. “And I guess we all learned that when things get a little too scary, you go to your safe place, don't you?”
“Waa.”
“So I wanted to tell you I am sorry, Puffy.” Her eyes softened and her lip eased out. “I'm sorry about this. I'm sorry about the tooth.”
Puffy pressed his tongue through the gap in his teeth.
“You caught me at bad moment there, kiddo.” She sighed and looked away at the memory. “I'm afraid I just don't like hecklers.”
© Greg Bardsley 2007 All Rights Reserved
