He had brought an audience, too, three guys from his dojo, all walking with that same exaggerated swagger. Almost immediately, Trent zeroed in on me. He went straight through a group of children playing tag, not caring that he bumped into a little girl. He marched up to where I was standing, dropping his gym bag onto the asphalt with a heavy thud. The casual chatter of the neighborhood began to die down. People sensed the tension.
“Hey Dave,” Trent said loudly. His voice was projected, designed to carry over the music. “We never finished our conversation from last week.” “Trent,” I said neutrally, taking a bite of a rib. “It’s a block party. Go eat a burger.” “Dude? I don’t eat garbage,” he spat. He unzipped his bag and pulled out a pair of 4-oz MMA gloves. He tossed one pair at my feet. “You got real lucky the other day, tripping me when I wasn’t looking. You think you’re tough in front of your little girl. Put the gloves on.”
The music seemed to completely stop. A heavy, uncomfortable silence blanketed the street. Dozens of neighbors turned to look. I saw Emily stand up, her face pale. Harry Caldwell was standing by his golf cart, sipping a beer, wearing a smug smile, entirely approving of his son’s behavior. “Trent, this is ridiculous,” said Mr. Peterson, the neighborhood association president, stepping forward nervously. “This is a family event.”
“Shut up, Peterson,” Trent snapped, not breaking eye contact with me. “This guy assaulted me last week on my own property. I’m calling him out, right here. Let’s see how tough you are on the grass, one-on-one, no cheap tricks.” He was backing me into a corner. If I walked away, he would relentlessly terrorize my daughter and me, believing I was entirely submissive. If I called the police, he would likely get a slap on the wrist, and the harassment would turn covert and much more dangerous.
He was a dog chasing a car, and he had no idea what he was about to catch. I put my paper plate down on the cooler. I looked at Emily and gave her a slow, reassuring nod. Then, I looked back at Trent. “You really want to do this?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave, shedding the polite suburban veneer. “Here? Now?” “Scared?” Trent taunted, strapping the Velcro of his gloves with his teeth. His friends chuckled. “I’m going to make you bleed in front of your kid, Dave.”
“Okay,” I said quietly. I didn’t pick up the gloves he threw at my feet. Gloves protect your hands from breaking on a skull. They aren’t meant for the other guy’s protection. I didn’t need them. I took off my flannel overshirt, leaving me in a plain gray T-shirt, and walked slowly toward the center of the large grassy common area between the driveways. Harry laughed loudly. “Call an ambulance for him now, Trent. Show this nobody what a real man looks like.”
