WHITE NOISE

His fingers dug into my shoulder and dragged me backward.

I rolled out of his grip and turned to face him.

He is taller than I, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. His fist is a Christmas ham firing into my face. I see static. My glasses flip off my ears and are stomped into pieces by the crowd. The music is a barrage of rapid-fire beats, throbbing, lights dance, pink and blue and green. I’m bleeding, staggering into the bodies. They squirm and push and nobody notices. My hair is sticking to my face. I hope this doesn’t stain my pants—God, I hope my nose isn’t broken.

The gorilla that hit me grabs Hazel by the arm and screams into her face. He’s wearing a tank top, crew cut beneath a flat-brimmed hat, and swim trunks—the tan skinned surfer type.

My shirt is ripped open climbing to my feet, a few buttons pop, my front teeth are soar and I can taste the iron in my blood. My nose is dumping—a soda fountain—down my chin. I wipe the mess off my face and hit the guy in the stomach. It hurts my knuckles, so I hit him again in the kidney and then in the chest. He stumbles backward and steps on a few people, boiling over with rage. I grab the girl and push her behind me—thinking twice, I tell her to run. The guy is six foot four—David and Goliath—and I haven’t got a sling.

He looms before me and says something in German, grins and raises his arm.

I bury my fist in the soft part of his shoulder and throw myself against him.

He slams his fists into my back and my fingers are climbing his neck, searching for an soft spot or an eye. The crowd is clapping, bobbing, dancing with their shoulders, beer bottles raised. A woman exposes herself, tosses her bra.

My fingers find an eye—he let’s go of me when he realizes what I’m about to do.

Hazel is screaming something.

A security guard has my waist.

Through the blood lust I remember being spoken to, I don’t remember saying much. They gave me a towel for my face. Hazel takes my hand and pulls me outside into the night.  Without my glasses the streetlights are blobs, cars are inarticulate specters. We're walking. Buildings rise on either side of us, meaningless shapes. I’m running on breakfast and one beer. My back hurts and my lips are numb beneath the damp towel. It’s hot outside; my clothes feel like an incubator, humidifying my arms and legs.

Hazel is sweet. She doesn’t say much. Her eyes are blue, and, trying to smile, she is beautiful in the moonlight.