A Bridge to Wife Battery

I glance down into the train yard off to my right where several trains stretch along their tracks like enormous yellow caterpillars. "You're sure that we can get there from here?"

"Yeah. There are a few bridges over the train yard that we can take."

"I know, but I don't know if it will be worth the time. We're already running a bit late after leaving Job's place."

"There should be a bridge just off the student quarter. We'll get there with time to spare if we go this way."

"All right, lead the way," Greg tells me me with an audible hint of doubt. 

I begin pedaling down the street. My tires slice through the puddles like rubber knives leaving wakes for Greg. My mind drifts back to the cafe last night when we watched Obama's inaugural speech on the mounted TV. In order to hang around long enough to watch the entire speech we were required to buy several servings of fries and krokets... Greg's voice breaks my daydream as he yells, "Oi! The bridge is here, dude!"

I look back, and surely enough Greg is perched on the corner where the bike path veers off to the right. I cruised right past it in my reminiscent stupor. An old woman flies by me as I set my foot on the sidewalk and look over my left shoulder. More bikers are on their way. I look further down the street and see no opportunities to cross to the other side anytime soon, so I grudgingly step off my bike, pull it up onto the sidewalk, and commit a serious faux pas: biking on the sidewalk. Only one Moroccan man is walking tonight as I pass him, but he stumbles onward without acknowledging me or my crime.

Greg has already begun crossing the bridge when I get there. I follow after him and soon enough we're standing in front of Solomon's building. Just over ten minutes to go. We both chain our bikes to the fence across the street. The two blocks lying before Solomon's apartment building have been completely demolished, but have yet to be cleared away. Rubble lies everywhere behind the fences. Whenever I see this stretch of wasteland I can't help but think about how similar this sight must be to that seen shortly after the Americans bombed this city during WWII. 

"This always looks to me like a bomb got dropped here."

"You said the exact same thing last week, you know." 

"Ha, I don't doubt that. It's ironic, isn't it?"

"What?"

"That we bombed this city on accident. The German border is another 10 miles away. Woops."

"We're pretty smooth, I guess."

"What should we do, man?"

"You mean until Solomon comes? I don't know. You tracted this street, right?"

"Yeah, this whole area. With Allred."

"Wait. Wasn't it just down the street where that guy attacked his wife?"

"Yeah, just over there."

I can see the spot down the street where Allred and I had parked our bikes that day. At the fifth door from the far corner a sallow looking woman had opened the door. As we had introduced ourselves a man appeared at the end of the hallway. His wife turned and asked him if he wanted to allow us in, at which time he mumbled something which sounded like a "Yes." I knew immediately that the last thing I wanted to do was go in that house. I glanced over at Allred, he shrugged, and we followed her inside. The living room stank. The coffee table was covered in beer bottles and a layer of ash. The floor was littered with cigarette butts and matted hair. She offered us the couch when her husband reentered the room. 

He commenced at once to yelling,"Who are these people?"

"I don't know exactly. You told me to let them in," she coolly responded. 

Repeatedly he screamed shrilly, "Who are these people? Why are they here?"

She tried to comfort him, but he wouldn't listen. I told her we would gladly leave if it would make him happy. She told us to stay anyway because they had invited us in. A noble attempt to be polite in spite of her drunken husband.

He suddenly interjected by threatening her. "I'll hit you for this. I'll hit you!!"

"Do it and I'll hit you right back!" she replied in utter frustration and embarrassment.

Without warning he punched her square in the face, knocking her to the ground. I was shocked. How could he possibly do this?!? She got up, dodged a second misguided punch, and hit him as hard as she could on his right ear. He collapsed easily due to his alcohol-induced lack of balance. Furiously he kicked back at his wife, causing her to buckle and fall to the floor beside him. He continued to kick her as she angrily drove her high heels up into his face. 

As my initial shock fell away I finally realized that it was time for me to intercede. Allred grabbed the wife and I the husband. We pulled them apart as hard as we could. Perhaps he could feel that I wasn't very frail, because he declined to hit me and instead continued kicking at his wife. I set him against the wall, but he was too dizzy to get up. Instead he sobbed miserably like a child. Allred set her on her feet. We offered to call the police, but nothing could have frightened her more than that. She thanked us for our help, promised to call us, and then ushered us out the door. 

The weather had been much warmer then. Today I can see the rainclouds creeping toward us in the twilight. Maybe it will snow this time. Still gazing down the street I see a tall African man striding in our direction. He's holding a few bags of groceries and is grinning at us from ear to ear. Greg and I grin back.