11 year old beating

I should have seen it coming. Unfortunately, his punch caught me just right and sent me crashing against the window of the local Starbucks. The last thing I remember seeing was the look and awe of the people coughing up their coffee as my assailant round housed my head with his foot. I have never felt teeth release from their sockets the way they did this day. The doctor said I had swallowed around six of them but who’s counting after five. A vast majority of my teeth were strewn about the pavement and several pieces became lodged in my forehead as my skull slammed on the ground. I am not sure if it was me falling or if he had forcefully put my head there but either way I now have enamel deposits under my scalp. How I had got to this point merely was from trying to help a kid out but in the end he apparently thought different.

The day was another one of those English gems. Slightly sunny, around seventy five degrees and a majority of the people dressed up as if winter was minutes away. I being the typical American found shorts and a t-shirt suitable and received stares because of my daring American ways. I didn’t care though; I was headed to my favorite coffee shop with my IPOD playing a mix of songs about life, love and drinking in hopes to spur my next great writing masterpiece. I rounded the bend that took me into the town center where the weekly market was in full swing. Gypsies selling their wares stolen from some family’s yard, farmers pushing produce like it is going out of style and local merchants selling whatever it is we apparently need to get by. I make my way through the crowd where I come across a group of kids packed on the statue of some soldier from a long ago war.

These kids not unlike your typical English youth are yelling at people passing by, throwing trash about and scaring most of the OAP’s (old ass people(old aged person)). You would think that most eleven year olds would have something better to do than getting drunk on a Saturday afternoon but apparently not. As an American, I try to do the right thing and enforce it on others. If I am going to live in another country, why should I not make the locals behave as I see fit. I make my way over to the YOB’s (English for punks) and tell them they probably should not be drinking out in public at such a young age, especially Stella Artois beer. Stella Artois is a well known beer in the area piped in from Belgium. It is the type of beer that if you drink enough of it you get a headache as if you were riding roller coasters for five hours in one-hundred degree weather without drinking any water. They immediately take offense at my comments.

“Fuck off Yank” is the warm welcome I receive.

“We will stomp your guts out if you don’t piss off.” My blood begins to boil.

I look around for some support from the passing crowd. Not a chance. People pass hurriedly as to not invoke the wrath of the eleven year old hoodies (term for punks that steal). In a bit of disgust I turn back to the kids when it hits me. The leader of the pack winds back with his half filled can of Stella and smashes it across my temple. I go cross eyed and drop to my knees. Between the immediate pain of the can and the burning sensation of cheap beer in my eyes I hear laughing and the fast approach of footsteps. I try to get to my feet but I feel a size six trainer separate my left kidney. I let out a veiled whimper only to be greeted with more kicks to my stomach.

As I try to regain my senses, one of the kids yells for someone to grab my IPOD. My first reaction is to try and keep them from stealing it but in that instant I feel a piece of the statue break across my shoulders. Not only do my shoulder blades break in half but I wonder what hell have I brought against myself that they are breaking pieces off the statue to beat me with. Soon enough my IPOD is out of my hands and they now start to use the headphone cord to strangle me with. I struggle to breathe as if I was trying to catch my breath through a bucket of sand. I wildly try to swing as if to catch one by chance but now the humiliation begins. The youngest of the group grabs my arm and uses my fist to punch me with. This is a method used in my youth against my brother and now is being used on me in front of a crowd of two hundred. For some reason the cord wrapped around my neck snaps and colors of pink slowly fill in my blue colored flesh, surely a win of my own in this losing battle.

As the fight comes to a lull one of the local street vendors aims a water hose at the bunch of us and tries to disperse us like a pack of dogs. Slowly I am able to get to my feet while the Hoodies catch their breath and wash my eyes out with the water coming my way. No sooner do my eyes clear out when I see the youngest within arm’s reach. When I say youngest I mean he is around nine years old. He is young enough to watch cartoons but it was today when he felt old enough to hit me with my fist. I exact my revenge by spinning him quickly and punching him in his throat and a second blow to his ear. The kid drops like Michael Spinks and starts to cry like the nine year old he is. His reflexes were a bit slow from the beer buzz that had taken effect and rightly so. My pride grows ever so slightly until I hear the displeasure of the crowd.

I look around and the crowd is now throwing insults and produce at me like I am locked up in some medieval stockade. I mean I could not get one of them to lift a finger to help me five minutes prior and now I am the bad guy for laying out a nine year old. I see old people crying, mothers covering their children’s eyes and fathers rolling up their sleeves. It appears I won’t be getting that coffee. In the midst of all the calls for my execution I hear the leader yelling at me.

“OI! That’s my baby brother!”

As I try to turn, I catch the one-two/punch-kick to the head. The crowd now cheers wildly as I land head first into my scattered teeth. I am not sure when the beating stopped but it was well after I blacked out. I hear stories that a mother threw a flower pot at me, a father pulled his brass knuckles out of retirement and OAP’s exacting revenge for old girlfriends hooking up with American GI’s back in the war.

It had never been my intention to start a street war but now I have to drive down to Newmarket just to get a cup of coffee without getting laughed at too much. I guess the bad thing is I still have to use that old electric wheelchair I picked up in Cambridge just to get there. Oh well, I need my Latte’s.