Counter Display

It was the last kick he landed that dislodged this particular belief. The counterman was decidedly down and out. I watched Philip, Philip who used to close the door extra softly so that I wouldn't wake up when he went to the washroom, rear back and kick a defenceless man in the face. I saw the prone man's nose bridge change angles by a significant degree, but I didn't hear any crack because Philip was yelling Never, never, never, never, never at a man who was beyond hearing.

I don't think he was permanently hurt -- I'm sure I would have heard something by now if he was. I think I would testify that Philip was gripped by a psychotic rage. It was the first time I'd ever seen his features express anger, and it was a revelation. His heavy eyebrows lowered, storm clouds over the flashing green of his eyes. His mouth was suddenly all clenched teeth. I'd often thought his looks were a little sluggish, and now I knew why: his face was made for anger.

His body wasn't, really, or at least the clumsy way he had first grabbed at the counterman wasn't the stylish expression of fluid violence we've all come to know and love from TV. He had moved the moment that the counterman had pushed Miya's screaming face away with the heel of his hand. As she stood there in shock, her snarl playing with a smile, Philip grabbed the counterman by the hair he had and sort of slapped him in the face with a pack of Skittles in his hand. The package burst and the pop was loud enough to make my heart jump a little.

I would have been able to do something then, but I didn't. I mean, I thought the guy deserved a little Skittle-smacking for his fucked up behaviour, and I figured that was that. Everything stopped for a second. The guy straightened up from the way he was kind of leaning against the counter and the package of candy fell from his chest to his hand. Philip was standing there motionless, like a robot, just staring. I put the juice I had been going to buy back into the fridge. The counterman, moving towards the cash register, shook the package so a few fell out.

Looking at the floor he said, "You pay --"

Like a tripped mousetrap, Miya said "Like fuck we will!"

The counterman whipped around and started screaming at her in Arabic, pointed his long finger at her to emphasize his phlegmatic curses. Miya was bent forward with the effort of spewing her venom. I gave the fridge door a push because it was having trouble closing on its own.

The counterman did take a step or two towards Miya, who was already pretty close. That's the problem with explaining this, cause it all sounds totally justified. When I tell you that Philip spun the old guy around by his apron and slugged him in the belly, you'll say, sure -- it's what I would have done, too.

There he was, bent over, and I started walking towards the door. Then Philip took another punch at the guys head, but his fist crumpled when it hit the solid bone. He let lose a string of profanity and cradled his hand, turning around in a circle. I looked over at Miya's face which was blank except for the occasional nostril flare.

The counterman sunk down to the ground, his agony over the gut punch lessened by Philip's obvious pain. I prayed that the grin I saw spreading on the counterman's pocked face would sensibly die before Philip completed his circle and faced him, but God rarely inhabits convenience stores.

"Asshole," the counterman croaked, laugh-coughing. Philip's face cleared and he dropped his hand. I knew that he hadn't played soccer since he was a kid -- didn't like the competition, he told me -- but I placed his technique instantly. He cleared the distance between them in a measured two steps so the he could turn the third step's momentum into a kick that would have been graceful had it not been unbalanced by viciousness, Philip's face clenching as he kicked. The counterman's head snapped back and he toppled backwards from his crouched position.

When Philip walked around his prone body I presumed it was to see if he was OK. I expected the old Philip to pop back into the world again, and for him to look anxiously at the man and peer into his eyes. But apparently one kick hadn't been enough, or one kick had only been a little taste.

I looked at Miya then, and saw her looking back at me. Not the measured, confident stare I had liked when we had been introduced at a party, but a look that was intense and distracted at the same time. She had always been outspoken -- at the party, for instance, I had heard her long before I saw her -- but I had never heard her actually lose her cool until two minutes before the kicking started.

"How much for this?" she had asked the counterman, holding up a chocolate bar.

"Price is on it," he had grunted, looking up from slapping other price tags on other products.

She flipped the bar. "Oh," she said with an embarrassed smile. "Whoops."

He said something then, shaking his head. I didn't hear what it was but Miya was closer than me.

She grinned suddenly. "Did you just call me a stupid bitch? You lousy stinking foetid piece of elephant shit? Excuse me," she said, getting in his face, "But did you, you comb-over, greasy forehead having, ears like fucking cauliflower asswipe actually call me a bitch?"

Before he exploded, there was a strange look on her face which was so out of context that it's only in retrospect I can identify it. Anticipation.

That's how it started, and it didn't actually finish when the kicking stopped. We left, me walking ahead quickly, wanting to put as much space between us and what I was beginning to think of as the scene of the crime. I looked back and I saw they were actually strolling, chatting quietly together. I turned into a laneway I knew, waiting impatiently for them to catch up, then marched on. It was pretty empty, the garage doors were still and the backyards were quiet. I started to relax, and turned around to tell them to hurry up.

Philip had Miya against one of the garages, his hand down the front of her jeans as if he was looking for change. She had a clump of his hair clenched in her hand and was pulling his head down onto her neck, her eyes closed and her lips slightly apart.

I walked on. When I looked back again, they were gone.