When I met my wife’s friend B___ he was wearing a black Fred Perry track suit, an 80s-Italian-guy-on-the-Jersey-Shore-meets-Compton-dope-dealer amount of gold jewelry. His hair and sunglasses were very Liam Gallagher.
We’d learn later that he was just getting a nice dope habit going, but for this night he was put together and months away from crashing. He and I hit it off fairly well. He seemed distracted by a dried out contact lens and kept jamming his eye, trying to induce tears to relieve his ocular suffering.
He was stumbling about on the edge of a dance floor when a brutal fight broke out between two goth girls. It wasn’t just a few shoves, either. It was a hair pulling, you stole my man, beat down that still ranks as one of the most intense fights I’ve ever seen in person.
B____ didn’t even look up. He wasn’t even interested. He just punched something into his Nokia and walked towards the bar. I remember thinking at the time, “this dude must be used to seeing some crazy shit if this brawl doesn’t even register.” That thought was confirmed as I grew to know him.