Brother (a short story)

Photo courtesy of Unsplash

"Don't touch me!" She shouted. Perhaps “shouted” is incorrect, as her voice belied that she still clearly didn’t want to cause too much of a scene- although this was exactly the wrong impulse. The man did not back up, but rather stepped closer, leering down at her, and taking obvious pleasure in the discomfort that he caused her. Passengers nearby couldn’t help but notice the interaction, which had slowly escalated over the last few minutes, and the reactions of the bystanders were predictable. Most pretended not to see anything, just glad that they weren’t the ones being harassed; a few pulled out their smartphones to record (if only they had had some popcorn handy, the entertainment experience would be complete).

The man, Malik DeCarlos Jackson, a 6’2”, 220-lb thug with a long history of catch-and-release interactions with the police, had learned long ago that, in the Democrat-run metropolis he called home, consequences for bad behavior were hard to come by.

At least for a black man.

His current victim, Skyler Whiting, was a 5’3” blonde bombshell, with striking blue eyes and a trim figure that she displayed quite gratuitously; she wore something which modern Americans would call a “summer outfit,” but which her grandmother would have called “absolutely disgraceful.” She was riding the public transit home with her friend, Claire Johnson- a redhead with a distractingly beautiful smile, perfectly seasoned with freckles, and a similar taste in clothing (or lack thereof). The pair were college freshmen (freshwomen?), headed home for a quick visit with family, and the trip had been a lot of fun.

Until now.

Malik reached for Claire’s auburn hair. Claire, not equipped with the sass which characterized Skyler, manifested her growing dread in the form of a nervous giggle, as Malik tugged none-too-gently on her ponytail. Skyler slapped his hand away, and in a split second he returned the slap- directly across her face. In that moment, Skyler learned what all of her professors had tried to deny- that men and women are different. The force of the slap threw her hard into the vertical handrail beside her, and she crumpled to the floor. “DON’T TOUCH ME,” Malik shouted, appending the imperative with a few choice words which will not be repeated here. “DON’T YOU EVER TOUCH NO BLACK MAN, YOU STUPID WHITE GIRL!”

A few of the bystanders had gasped at the slap, but nothing more. A few more phones were out. This was definitely going to be popular on Instagram.

Claire was completely terrified. She knelt by Skyler, speaking softly to her friend, who was groaning in pain and had a sizable, and bleeding, lump on the right side of her head. Malik grabbed Claire by the ponytail again and pulled her to her feet. “She got what she deserved, ain’t nobody helping her up,” he said, menacingly.

“Let go of her!”

The voice came from somewhere behind Claire, along with the shuffling sound of someone moving quickly through the crowded train car. It wasn’t quite a shout, but it was loud and decisive, nonetheless. William Carter was 5’10” and a very purposeful 170 lbs. A young, white, suburban husband of a new bride and father of a nine-month-old, he was headed home from a welding conference, and he hadn’t planned on this sort of encounter today.

But he had been preparing for it for a long time. Now, he was praying fervently. “Wisdom… courage… strength… victory… in Jesus’ Name.”

He pushed his way through the crowd of cell-phones to where Claire stood, her pretty little head still cocked at an uncomfortable angle by the upward pull of Malik’s massive arm. Malik looked like he was about to say something, but he didn’t have a chance; William grabbed his hand by the thumb, twisted it backwards, and threw it away from Claire, then landed a sharp punch to Malik’s face. Malik stumbled backwards, but quickly regained his composure. Blood trickled down from his nose. William took his stand between Malik and the girls and stared at the massive man with unblinking disdain.

The crowd of onlookers was tangibly torn between fear of the impending violence and anticipation of a spectacle far more interesting than whatever brain-rot they had been feasting their eyes on ten minutes ago.

Behind Malik, another hulking ebony-black man could be seen, eyebrows raised, pushing his way quickly to the scene of the confrontation. He was still twenty feet away, but he was closing fast. His name was Marcus Jones, and he wasn’t afraid to fight for a brother.

Malik, meanwhile, was now out for blood. He had been defied and embarrassed by this little white boy, and he was not going to stand for it. “THIS HOW YOU WANT IT, WHITE BOY? THIS HOW YOU WANT IT, CR*CKER?” It should be noted that Malik, while not the most intelligent, had learned from an early age how to manipulate others- not least of all the justice system. He wanted to pound William until he stopped moving, but he also knew what kind of excuses would play well in court.

“YOU THINK I’M YOU N*GGA? YOU THINK YOU CAN PUSH A BLACK MAN AROUND, SHOW ME NO RESPECK?”

“This doesn’t have to go down like this, man. Calm down.” William delivered this with icy cool, and, without breaking his rhetorical stride or his laser-focus on Malik, pointed to a man sitting nearby and said “You, blue hat, call the cops, NOW.” He delivered the command with a conviction which demanded obedience, and the man reluctantly paused his livestream and dialed 9-1-1.

“YOU THINK I’M YOU N*GGA? WHY DON’T YOU GO AHEAD AND SAY IT, LITTLE CR*CKER BOY?”

If only Malik could get William to say the magic word, then all bets were off. He could kill the impudent white boy with his bare fists, and it would be an easy case of self-defense.

Marcus was ten feet away, hearing every word, closing rapidly. Reinforcements were on the way.

William didn’t respond as Malik had hoped. “I don’t want to fight you, man. Calm down. Walk away. The cops are on their way.”

At the mention of the cops, something snapped in Malik’s head (it was not the first thing to have snapped in Malik’s head, if we are being honest). This was his chance, and he was taking it. In the blink of an eye, he had launched a massive right hook directly at William’s head. The force behind this punch was enough to knock a horse unconscious.

But it wasn’t the first right hook that William had slipped, and, therefore, it wouldn’t be the last. With an ease that belied many hours of training, his head bobbed effortlessly under the massive black fist; in a simultaneous motion, William’s left fist swung in a graceful arc that landed explosively against Malik’s temple. But William wasn’t done. Now that the Rubicon had been crossed, he knew full well that it was literally a question of victory or death.

In the split-second opportunity that his strike opened up, he delivered a right fist to Malik’s solar plexus, and then an uppercut directly to his jaw. Malik was reeling, and had no defense for the subsequent roundhouse kick that cracked two ribs. He clutched his side, cursing and roaring in pain and rage, until William’s other shin made contact with his jaw, and he collapsed, in a heap, to the ground.

William backed up, bleeding fists held at the ready, breathing heavy.

Marcus burst through the onlookers, his coal-black eyes soaking in the sight before him. Black man lying motionless on the ground. Two white girls huddled, crying, on a bench against the wall. White man standing with bloody fists between the two parties.

His eyes met William’s. For a moment, you could have heard a pin drop. William spoke first, his elevated heart rate and throbbing adrenaline maintaining a low simmer in his voice.

“If you’re a black man, then that’s your brother, and I’m ready for round two.”

Marcus’ jaw tightened, and his fists clenched into massive wrecking balls, but William continued.

“But if you’re an American, then you’re my brother, and you can help me clean this mess up.”

The entire train car, and thousands of livestream viewers, held their breath.

On the floor, Malik began to stir. At the same moment, Marcus stepped forward. One massive stride cut the distance between himself and William in half. Malik began to struggle to his feet.

Then, suddenly, Marcus took another step. He planted his foot squarely between Malik’s shoulderblades, and pinned him to the ground under 250 pounds of American muscle.

“Stay down, n*gga.” The deep, rumbling voice left Malik feeling quite convinced that this was his only option.

Marcus broke into a smile, his white teeth shining like a welcome sunrise from his black face, and everyone began to breathe again. He reached out his hand to William, who shook it with a deep sigh of relief. “I gotchu, brotha,” rumbled Marcus.

William smiled.

“Thanks, brother.”

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(The characters in this story are fictional; resemblance to any specific person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.)