Page 90 of When The Noise Stops

By the second bar, we were all a little drunk.

By the third, we were a lot drunk.

We were at the bar trying to buy drinks to get even more fucked up when a white man walked up.

Mid-forties, wearing a Polo shirt and too much expensive cologne.

"Hey," he said, leaning against the bar next to Ronny.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Ronny didn't look up from her phone.

"No," she barely glanced at him.

"Come on. Just one."

"I said no."

His face changed. The smile faded.

"Bitch," he muttered.

"You Bla—"

Tiny was on his feet before I could blink.

"What did you say to her?"

The man looked at Tiny. Sized him up and somehow looked him over.

"I was getting ready to tell the truth. Black women here are so full of themselves. You got a problem with that?"

Tiny's hands balling into fists.

"Tiny," Ronny snapped.

"Don't."

"He called you out of your name."

"I know. And I've been called worse by better men. Let it go."

The man laughed.

"Listen to your girlfriend, big man. Before you get hurt."

Tiny moved.

I grabbed his arm. Ronny grabbed his other.

"Tiny," I was sober now.

"This ain't Florida. This is D.C. You hit him, you go to jail. Real jail. And if he's somebody important, prison."

He didn't move.

"Tiny. Look at me."