The Fight

“Let me go!”  “I‘ll kill you!”  “I dare you!”  “Don’t touch her!”  Those words, and many more, burst through the night into our open window. 

Iris, who had just fallen asleep, began to whimper.  Suddenly and silently, she bolted into a sitting position, eyes wide-open, looking at me, looking at the window.  Try as I might to lull her back to sleep, I could not.  She was concerned by the unusual sounds she was hearing. 

Glass shattered and more shouts split the darkness.  Igor, Iris and I looked out the window trying to see where the racket was coming from.  Our side of the street.  My father-in-law called up the stairwell to our apartment to ask if his second son was part of the ruckus.  We didn’t think so. 

We climbed the stairs to the roof to cool down, and if we’re honest, to be a bit snoopy.  We weren’t the only ones.  We laughed as we saw people sitting on nearly every rooftop for a block and a half, people in most of the windows, and others with their cellphones filming a few drunk couples’ foolish dispute that they’d taken to the street. 

The police, who rarely attend to any problems and often pick up and immediately hang up the phone when it rings for an emergency, happened to be driving by and decided to stop.  For Iris’s sake, we returned to the hot apartment so the little wiggle-worm could crawl.  We never did see if the officers took anyone away.  After about fifteen minutes inside the noise died down and the fight seemed to be over.

It isn’t often that we hear that sort of squabble, but with an eclectic group of neighbors, one never knows what nighttime will bring, or daytime for that matter.