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.
