Heels clicking across the wet pavement, I made my way around the side of the strip mall containing what I considered at the time to be the only non-scummy Salsa club in Nashville. It was late, and a large crowd of people were also leaving at the same time as me. They clicked their heels or shuffled their too-pointy-to-be-masculine shoes across the parking lot to their cars.
I found myself right behind a couple of younger guys. One was Dominican, and was ushering his friend quickly around the length of the building. His friend, the other guy, looked white, complete with blonde hair and blue eyes, but was actually Cuban. His Cuban-ness was hard to miss, especially from my close proximity, because he he kept babbling on and on about how he was "Cubano, Loco! Estoy Cubano! No preoccupes, Loco! Estoy Cubano, Loco!"
Everyone around us was looking at them, and it was hard not to. The Cubano continued babbling angrily, like he was about to bust a cap in somebody or something.
Still. Something about me has never assumed the worst about people. Especially Latin people. I look at him thinking about his family somewhere, whether it be here or in Cuba. About his little sister and his mama who probably saw him as protector though he clearly had a problem with alcohol that could potentially escalate if he didn't put it down within the next couple of years. Thinking about his crap job and the crap apartment he shared with friends. Thinking about how he was young and homesick, but knew he had a job to do.
We rounded the corner, and then Cubano, most obviously drunk at this point, was near flailing with the intensity of his rambling. The Dominican turned around to me, almost for help, like "I can't do anything with this guy..." So I stepped up on a whim.
"Hey. Are you okay?" Cubano turned to me and barely looked at me. He pushed the Dominican, who spoke to him in English.
"You're not gonna fight anybody tonight, man. This is the wrong time, wrong place."
"--Yeah, you don't wanna get yourself arrested." I added.
The blonde Cuban was still pacing, almost rocking back and forth, as we had reached the end of the building and it was then a bit darker without the overhanging lights.
"No me importa! I don't care, man. Estoy Cubano, Loco, I do what I want."
"Chill out, dude." I touched him on the arm. For no reason, really. Because I think women sometimes help put things into perspective. We're supposed to be soft, right? "You sound like Scarface right before he gets shot, man. Be careful, okay."
He laughed at that, and then stepped off the sidewalk. The Dominican smiled at me, and I started to walk in the direction of my car. But I stopped short.
On the other side of the corner, there were five guys waiting for Cubano and his Dominican friend.
"Mira, mira!!!! I told you, man!"
The five guys were moving forward in a half circle around the two friends, and the last thing I saw was the seven of them bobbing around at each other like giant chickens. "Posturing," my mind blurted, as I remembered a zero-tolerance rule from the alternative school where I'd taught. But in the time it took my mind to pop with the word, Cubano was reeling backward with his whole body weight thrown into his right fist, ready to land on somebody.
I turned and ran, click click click, toward my car. Punching the unlock button on my keys before dodging into it.
"Fine, kids, get your dumbass selves arrested! I don't care! I'm legal! I freakin live here!"
And that was the last time I ever went to the salsa club. I'm never going back. And its not necessarily because I feel unsafe there. Its just that I realized suddenly that I am a terrible judge of character and that I should probably not put myself in a position to get shot by people who may or may not be able to dance well.
I found myself right behind a couple of younger guys. One was Dominican, and was ushering his friend quickly around the length of the building. His friend, the other guy, looked white, complete with blonde hair and blue eyes, but was actually Cuban. His Cuban-ness was hard to miss, especially from my close proximity, because he he kept babbling on and on about how he was "Cubano, Loco! Estoy Cubano! No preoccupes, Loco! Estoy Cubano, Loco!"
Everyone around us was looking at them, and it was hard not to. The Cubano continued babbling angrily, like he was about to bust a cap in somebody or something.
Still. Something about me has never assumed the worst about people. Especially Latin people. I look at him thinking about his family somewhere, whether it be here or in Cuba. About his little sister and his mama who probably saw him as protector though he clearly had a problem with alcohol that could potentially escalate if he didn't put it down within the next couple of years. Thinking about his crap job and the crap apartment he shared with friends. Thinking about how he was young and homesick, but knew he had a job to do.
We rounded the corner, and then Cubano, most obviously drunk at this point, was near flailing with the intensity of his rambling. The Dominican turned around to me, almost for help, like "I can't do anything with this guy..." So I stepped up on a whim.
"Hey. Are you okay?" Cubano turned to me and barely looked at me. He pushed the Dominican, who spoke to him in English.
"You're not gonna fight anybody tonight, man. This is the wrong time, wrong place."
"--Yeah, you don't wanna get yourself arrested." I added.
The blonde Cuban was still pacing, almost rocking back and forth, as we had reached the end of the building and it was then a bit darker without the overhanging lights.
"No me importa! I don't care, man. Estoy Cubano, Loco, I do what I want."
"Chill out, dude." I touched him on the arm. For no reason, really. Because I think women sometimes help put things into perspective. We're supposed to be soft, right? "You sound like Scarface right before he gets shot, man. Be careful, okay."
He laughed at that, and then stepped off the sidewalk. The Dominican smiled at me, and I started to walk in the direction of my car. But I stopped short.
On the other side of the corner, there were five guys waiting for Cubano and his Dominican friend.
"Mira, mira!!!! I told you, man!"
The five guys were moving forward in a half circle around the two friends, and the last thing I saw was the seven of them bobbing around at each other like giant chickens. "Posturing," my mind blurted, as I remembered a zero-tolerance rule from the alternative school where I'd taught. But in the time it took my mind to pop with the word, Cubano was reeling backward with his whole body weight thrown into his right fist, ready to land on somebody.
I turned and ran, click click click, toward my car. Punching the unlock button on my keys before dodging into it.
"Fine, kids, get your dumbass selves arrested! I don't care! I'm legal! I freakin live here!"
And that was the last time I ever went to the salsa club. I'm never going back. And its not necessarily because I feel unsafe there. Its just that I realized suddenly that I am a terrible judge of character and that I should probably not put myself in a position to get shot by people who may or may not be able to dance well.
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