Instinctively, I raised my middle finger at the offender behind me, then took another swig of booze. I hated that God damned holiday. Sure, Christ's birth is fine and all, but all the red and green and gift-giving and love all starting right away at the end of November can make a guy sick. In this case, that guy is me.
I didn't hear a response right away. I assumed the guy had taken off. Then the chunk of snow hit me in the back of the head, making a sound like a bag of sand had broken on the floor. The stray snow made its way down the back of my shirt and all over my neck and began to melt. I tensed. The bastard.
"Christ!" I found myself gasping. I turned to see who the doomed kid was.
I didn't recognize him. For a moment I thought it strange that he knew me and I didn't know him, but then I remembered--I'm Spot Conlon. Everybody knows me.
"Merry Christmas!" he said cheerfully, a smug smile plastered on his ugly mug.
"Yeah, Merry Christmas," I muttered. "And your mother is a whore."
His smile disappeared from his face as one materialized on mine. "What'd you say about my mother?" he demanded.
"Oh, nothing," I replied, brushing the snow from the back of my head. "Just that strangers pay her for sex. Good business, now-a-days! What a wonderful woman, she's gotta be."
He ran at me. I dropped the bottle of booze and braced for impact. The guy was much bigger than me, but hell, when has that ever stopped me from winning a fight before? He hit me like a ton of bricks, and we rolled around in the snowy street for a few moments before I got a few punches in and got to my feet. I had just enough time to brush some of the snowflakes from my clothes before he got up and ran at me again.
We threw around some fists for awhile longer. I definitely had the upper hand. I mean, did he actually think he was a match for me? I didn't stop fighting until I heard the whistle.
God damn it.
I'd only been arrested once before, when I was fourteen. Like nearly everyone I knew, I'd stolen food and got caught for it. (It's pretty much a right of passage--you steal some food, you're now a man.) The cop had his club out and raised, his other hand was out towards us, as if his extended palm could stop us from fighting. Being the good citizen that I was, I immediately put my fists down and just stood there, while that son of a bitch got one more hit in. When I find out who that rat is, lemme tell you, it'll be a fine day for Brooklyn.
They took us both straight to Raymond St., despite the many times I told that copper I was only seventeen. Kids go to the juvenile facility, criminals go to Raymond. He didn't listen.
Mr. Snowball and me shared a cell that night. I fought the urge to beat him to a God damn pulp the entire time. Just before the lights turned out, he had the nerve to mutter, "Merry Christmas, Conlon."
I threw my shoe at him. "Your mother's still a whore."