Years ago, I got into a fight with one of my buddies from the block. This dude used to come to my house all the time and we were good friends. But one day, I’m not sure what possessed him to do this, but he took my black pilot marker without asking. Back then, we used to tag up on the walls in the neighborhood. Yeah, we were kids who defaced our own neighborhood for a bit of local recognition. Not proud of it, I know.
Anyway, my buddy took it from me. It was messed up because I trusted him, and all he had to do was ask—I would have lent it to him. I knew it was him because he was the only one who came to my house, and I saw his tag on the walls with fresh black pilot ink. I confronted him about it, and of course, he denied it. But in his rush, he left one of his comics behind. Want to laugh? I still have that comic, and I bet the marker is long gone! So I guess I won that exchange.
We were outside hanging out, had some words, and then ended up in a fist fight. He wanted his comic back but wouldn’t admit to taking my marker. I told him I was going to keep his stuff for taking mine without asking. He didn’t like what I said, and things escalated. We used to mess around play-fighting all the time, and I thought I could hold my own. But he had grown quite a bit since we last sparred, and that turned out to be my downfall. If we had fought more recently, I would have known I was outmatched.
First, he landed some solid punches, then he got me on the ground, mounted me, and started throwing hits. There was no way around it. I was getting handled and it was clear I was out of my league.
One of my closest friends saw what was going down and realized I was in trouble. So he stepped in and pulled the guy off me. I was able to stand up, and my friend let him go. The guy looked around, probably wondering if we’d jump him, but we just backed off with our hands up. Like I said, we were all friends, and my buddy was just making sure I didn’t get hurt too badly.
We all understood the fight was over. I lost, and that was that. Clearly, I was no match for him, but my friend wasn’t about to let me get beaten up on the street. We nodded and left things where they were. He knew he’d done wrong, I was keeping the comic, and he knew that was fair.
Later that same day, some of the older guys from the neighborhood came by asking if we jumped him. We told them no, that he was pulled off me so he wouldn’t seriously hurt me. I was honest and said I got the worst of it and my friend stepped in to help. They seemed to be looking for something to back up if we fought unfairly, but that wasn’t the case. While the fight was happening, I never threatened or attacked anyone beyond defending myself. Once we were all standing up, it was done.
I found it a bit ironic that those older guys were checking in on whether things were handled fairly, given the kind of situations they were often involved in themselves. So it struck me as an odd concern coming from them.
Weeks later, the guy I fought asked me for the comic again. This time, he admitted to what happened and offered me a dried-up, previously new black pilot marker. We laughed about it, and I told him the comic was mine.
That was the time one of my buddies saved me while Growing Up Bronx. Some weeks ago, I spoke to the friend who stepped in that day, and he said, “That was one of my proudest childhood moments.” I thanked him again for having my back back then. We haven’t hung out in years, but we’re friends for life.
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