I haven’t written about my early years on the streets for a while, but this story came up last night…
Back in 1999 I was living in a 21 foot trailer in a junk yard in Ballard/Seattle with a bunch of strippers, tweakers, and alcoholics. Now, I’ve never been a violent person, but one night as I was walking in the yard with one of the strippers–who was also pregnant–the Manager of the property suddenly hauled off and decked her out of the blue. She hit the ground hard.
I grabbed him, trying to immobilize his arms from behind. The move didn’t work like I had it in my mind. Maybe it would have worked if he had resisted, but he went all limp and flaccid in my arms, staring at me with dead fish eyes. He wriggled out of my grasp and ran to his room in the warehouse with me hot on his heels. He barely squeezed in the door shutting it hard on my leather clad arm, until I had to pull out and let the door close. I tried to kick down the door, only to be restrained by the “music producer”/pimp who lived downstairs. I almost kicked him in the balls in frustration, but managed to calm down as four or five people restrained me.
I never did find out what that incident was all about, except that the stripper said he was always peaking at her through a hole in the wall of the shower and she told him to stop (possibly forcefully). She was okay, and continued to live there, but I had to leave shortly after that.
I moved into a four-foot tall nook in the basement of a hippy house off of University Ave. A year later I ran into the stripper’s boyfriend, and he gave us some bizarre story of her giving birth alone with him in a canyon during a flood while he was tripping on acid. He seemed fuzzy on the whereabouts and status of both his girlfriend and their child.
I’m a really non-violent person, but if you beat a woman in front of me I will fuck you up.