Fight or Toke?

Fight or Toke?

Dietz, Tucker, and I ran into Jamie Heath, Dick and Brian Wittek on Irving Street one night. They were partying in a yard behind one of the storefronts and we joined them.

When we got back there this dude named Ronny Hotz started passing around a joint. I didn’t know him all that well but over the last few weeks I had run into him several times. No matter, If the Ayatollah had been sparking up a joint I would have complimented him on his beard and welcomed him with open arms.

Now of all the times I had ever been in a fist fight, probably 85 percent of the time it was with Jamie, Dick, or Brian. Jamie was of English ancestry and I just couldn’t resist calling him a limey sometimes. This invariably precipitated a conflict. Jamie had quite a martial repertoire including but not limited to kneeing, elbowing, biting, scratching, head butts, kicking, hair pulling, and finger bending.

So even though I had no reason to expect a fight, I kept my eyes open. The joint had come over by Jamie and me and we were giving each other shotguns. For those who may not know, a shotgun is when one person puts the lit end of a joint in their mouth and blows forcing the smoke to flow in a concentrated stream out the other end and into the recipients mouth. I was on the business end of the shotgun when Dick, with no visible provocation, jumped up and cold cocked Tucker in the jaw. In an instant, Brian went after Dietz with equal ferocity.

This was a difficult moment. I came in with Dietz and Tucker, but I had been friends with the Witteks and Jamie forever too. Jamie did not share my ambivalence and he turned away from me to jump in the fight under the Wittek banner.

It was with great reluctance that I grabbed Jamie’s shoulder for I was sure a tooth and nail battle was only a moment away. He turned and for a split second I saw that “Limey you say?” look on his face. Then his countenance transformed into a look of gratitude. He reached up and pulled the lit end of the joint from inside his mouth, handed it to me, and said: “Thanks, Bilbo.”

He mistook my intent as wanting to prevent him from burning the inside of his mouth during the fight The genuine affection on his face and the still burning joint combined to render me an observer.

The real loser was Ronny Hotz. A couple of weeks later he went in the Conrail freight yard to steel some batteries from the vehicles on the new car carriers. When he opened up the hood of a car on the top deck it got too close to the electric line that powered the trains. In one horrible instant he was burned to death. Ironic, I know.

I often ask myself why was I given the chance to turn myself around and not Ronny. He really was a nice guy.