A Punch in the Face

Something is amiss.

The sun has long since set but the heat still sticks to the skin. A drink out on the front porch should not sweat in the dark like this but so it does; it leaves the palm moist when you set it down, and doesn't quite quench the thirst the way it should, so you pick it right back up again. An undisciplined man will find himself heading inside frequently for refills and micturation.

But The Great Nate is disciplined. He is well-schooled in the hot thick night. He is a man of impeccable pacing. The lone chair out front is his and his alone, for his ass never leaves its friendly confines. The houseguests with their hair too long and their clothing woven too tightly all suffer while The Great Nate attacks his beverage with a steady, studied patience.

Indoors, someone turns on an oscillating fan, and gradually they all leave the porch to claim their own brief blast of relief. The Great Nate is left alone save for a bearded lunatic sprawled on his back on the front lawn, babbling gibberish at the moon. This man is either a wandering drunk or The Great Nate's roommate. With this darkness and his incoherence it is impossible to tell.

A skinny man with anxious fingers and toes briefly steps outside to smoke. He makes conversation, undeterred by The Great Nate's silence. He's quite good at this one-sided dialogue, and between puffs he theorizes about vaginas and how best to get inside them. When his cigarette is depleted he moseys on back inside. The Great Nate, granted respite, allows himself one single, abbreviated sigh.

Soon the time comes for him to leave his seat. He takes his last sip and rises from his seat, flipping the empty glass into the yard, where it thuds to a halt mere inches from the bearded lunatic's ear. He pays it no heed, not even wincing, as he continues his diatribe against the heavens. The Great Nate walks out into the grass and cools his toes on the soil, fanning them lightly on the blades as he strides. He gives the lunatic's leg a quick prod with his foot as he passes, but no sign of recognition results. The Great Nate shrugs off this snub and continues on, out onto the street, still warm to the touch. There he stops. He makes a turn to his right, fixing his gaze on a pair of white lights, slowly creeping toward him. He reaches down into the pocket of his shorts and extricates a banana, half-eaten. His eyes focused on the approaching headlights, he proceeds to half-eat the remainder, taking careful, measured strides forward.

The two bodies meet several feet past the discarded banana peel. The low rumble of the car's engine now completely drowns out the ramblings from the lunatic on the lawn. A scab on The Great Nate's shin begins to flake under the glare of the nearby headlights. The Great Nate resists the urge to scratch; he stands still, giving no inches. The car lurches, and the door creaks open. The driver steps out onto the street. Perhaps, in another town and in another time and at another latitude, he may well look the part. But here, he looks a fool. He wears a knit cap and a button-down shirt that has been misaligned badly. Long pants and loafers complete the unlikely ensemble. Away from the influence of conditioned air, this driver, this fool, begins to sweat something fierce.

The Great Nate, for the first time this evening, needs a drink. As the fool approaches him with a crooked grin that matches his crooked shirt, The Great Nate feels an unfamiliar pang of unease. The something that was amiss has revealed itself in this form, this loping figure before him, now extending a hand in greeting, now beginning to open his mouth, to deign to speak to The Great Nate, here, now, in this, his domain, his simmering asphalt anteroom.

The words that come out make as much sense as the ramblings he'd left behind on the lawn. The Great Nate twists his mouth downwards, aiming to frown, but this does not suit him and so he stops, mid-way, settling for a slight grimace. He chooses not to respond to the nonsense in front of him, and turns his back on the fool. A wise man knows when to walk away, and so The Great Nate does. After a few strides, he stoops to pick up the discarded banana peel, and when he rises up again, there, in front of him once more, is the same smiling fool. Instinctively, his fist clenches.

Again, the fool's hand extends. More nonsense from that lopsided smile. The Great Nate feels his cool beginning to slip. His arms shoot out wide, exasperated. His eyebrows raise inquisitively. Banana peel juice slides through the cracks in his fingers.

The fool, still smiling, doesn't seem to move, but nonetheless The Great Nate is knocked off his feet by a fist aimed squarely at his jaw. The banana peel, released from his grip by the resultant shock wave, flips and twirls upward into the musky air. The Great Nate's back arches as his heels leave the street; his left eye slams shut in pain but his right remains open, and as the fool's smiling face disappears out the bottom of his field of vision it is replaced by the swooning night sky and then the white white moon, shining straight down into his pupil. Moments before he hits the ground, a stream of vociferous babbling nonsense runs through The Great Nate's mind. A moment after he does hit the ground, the banana peel exacts its revenge, landing with a plop on The Great Nate's damaged face.

Flat on his back on the cracked tarmac, arms and legs splayed outwards, The Great Nate is now unclear. He hears footsteps, a door closing, a groaning gearshift. The headlights beaming out over him recede, grow dim, disappear. The moon and silence remain. A peculiar thought dusts itself off and takes a quick run through The Great Nate's bewildered brain. Not one to put much credence in the spectacular, he questions its veracity. The thought repeats itself. The Great Nate remains skeptical.

Off in the distance, the babbling bearded lunatic--as only a babbling bearded lunatic can--voices his agreement.