"Crossing Colfax" by J.D. Strunk

Crossing Colfax

Shortly into my walk home from the gym, I saw a man stumble across Colfax Avenue, drawing the fury of innumerable drivers in the process. When he reached the sidewalk, he turned toward me and held out his fist. Without a second’s thought, I extended my own fist, and our knuckles met three feet above the greasy sidewalk. Though we exchanged smiles at the contact, a shadow of unease swept over me as we separated — enough that I stopped at the corner in order to watch the man’s progress up the street.
The man soon approached a group of suburban twentysomethings, everything about whom screamed “suburbs,” from their preppy clothes and backwards hats, to their theatrical vaping, to their looking the wrong way before crossing Downing (a one-way street). It was Friday, and weekend Colfax is a different beast than during the week: There is an almost carnival air on the weekends, as suburbanites crowd into the music venues lining Denver’s east side.
            As the man extended his fist toward the suburban kids — they may have been in their early twenties, but they remained children in my book — my stomach clenched. Within seconds, my fears were realized, as one of the kids stepped forward and took a swing at the man. The punch connected with the man’s left eye, and he crumpled to the filthy sidewalk like a weakened Jenga tower.
            A host of shirtless men leaning against a nearby liquor store witnessed the attack, and were quick to approach the suburban kid and his half-dozen compatriots. Escalation felt imminent, and I was relieved when red and blue lights flashed from behind me — there was often a car outside this particular liquor store, given its sordid history. The cruiser pulled up onto the sidewalk between the two groups, and a pair of officers got out.
            “What happened?” asked one of the officers, a lean Hispanic guy with a bald head so shiny it reflected the streetlights. As he stood sentry, his hands gripped the sides of his bulletproof vest, making “Vs” of his elbows.
            A cacophony of voices erupted in answer, instantly drowning each other out.
            The officer raised a hand, appealing for calm. He pointed toward the kid who had punched the man. “What happened?” he asked again.
            “Fucker took a swing at me,” said the kid, his voice heavy with victimhood.
            Now, I am not one to insert myself into other people’s drama, but this was too much for my sense of justice to bear.
            “No,” I said, stepping forward, and surprising even myself with my interjection. “He was giving people fist bumps.”
            “He gave you a fist bump,” said the kid. “He took a damn swing at me.”
            “He was saying hello and you punched him for it,” I said, adrenaline pounding in my ears.
            The second cop approached the man who’d been accosted, the latter of whom had long since been helped up by members of the liquor store crowd.
            “Do you want to press charges?” the officer asked the man.
            “Wassat?”
            “Do you want to press charges against the man who hit you?”
            “Oh. . . . no.” The man shook his head for emphasis. “No.”
            The officer nodded. Following a reproachful look at the offending youth, he and the other officer got in their cruiser and continued down Colfax.
            In the officers’ absence, the suburban kid’s eyes landed on me. And I welcomed them. Still seething, I let the kid know exactly what I thought of him. Here was someone I knew to be capable of physical violence — had seen commit such violence — and I was all but goading him to strike out at me. Moreover, I wanted him to — as idiotic as that sounds. I wanted him to hit a person who’d have no qualms about pressing charges against him. Someone who would show up at court early, dressed to kill, and with a speech memorized. Even as I called the kid every name in the book, I was imagining the day of his sentencing — planning the tie I’d wear. The belt. The shoes.
            But the suburban kid made no movement toward me. The more I insulted him, the more he smiled at my anger, as if my outrage was just a costume I wore, like those inflatable sumo wrestler getups you sometimes see on reality TV shows. And then I understood: this guy would never hit me. I was too much like him to ever be perceived as a threat. Too put together. Too educated. Too white.
            When the kid turned around and walked away, I was still irate. But I was also unharmed.

* * *

The very next day, on my way home from the gym, I passed the same man again — the man who had been punched. His eye was swollen, but he seemed in good enough spirits. There was even a vague smile of recognition when he saw me. But when I held up my fist, he only winced.

Photo Credit: Staff