I rubbed my aching head. There was some blood, and I wiped my hand on my jeans. It was lucky I played football, and so was accustomed to having my brains beat in. I just did what the coach always told me and shook it off. But man, it hurt like hell, and once I came to my senses I was really pissed off. "Jesus Christ! Who the hell did that?!" I cried out.
"It was one of those guys up there," Jack, the guy who had grabbed me, said. He motioned to another group of people gathered around their cars up the hill in the gravel parking lot about thirty yards away. I turned around and looked. It was dark and I couldn't see much. "Who the hell's up there?" I said.
"Must be somebody who really hates my guts." I was seething with rage. "I'm going to go up there and find out who did it and kick his fucking ass."
"Don't worry about it, man," Jack said, trying to calm me down. "He probably wasn't throwing at you. He was just throwing into the crowd."
Once I thought about it, I knew Jack was right: it was too far to aim with much precision. But I definitely didn't think that excused the bastard. In fact, it made me even madder. "What the hell kind of person would have done a thing like that?" I said. "Doesn't that piss you off?"
"Maybe he was just aiming for the fire," Jim said, and nobody else seemed that concerned either. They didn't want to start any trouble. I wondered why the hell I hung around with these guys.
"Goddamn it, I'm going to kick that motherfucker's ass," I said. Nobody went with me, and nobody tried to stop me. My head was throbbing as I walked up the hill to the parking lot. Once I got close, I saw that there were five or six guys up there, standing around a car with the stereo playing. They were people I knew, but not that well: they weren't a part of my crowd.
"Alright, who threw that fucking rock?" I said.
"What rock," a couple of them asked.
"You know damn well what rock. If you threw it, speak up right now, and I'll kick your fucking ass."
This approach didn't produce results. But once I had got up to the parking lot and saw who was there, I knew that there was only one person there who was capable of throwing that rock. I approached all the others first, questioning them individually as to who had thrown the rock, daring each of them to own up to it-- raving at them--and saving Hank for last, working up the courage to confront him.
Hank was big and fat, but mostly just big, about 6'5", and nasty and dirty, with greasy long black hair. He was leaning his ass up against the hood of the car, calmly smoking a cigarette. Though I had had limited dealings with Hank, he had the reputation of being a real asshole. I could attest to at least one episode that served to confirm this opinion: A couple years earlier I was over at a friend's house drinking beer and listening to records down in his basement. Hank came into the house without knocking, and came clomping down the steps. He didn't even acknowledge our presence, but just grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator--without asking--and popped it open and stood there gulping it down.
Joey, the guy who lived there, didn't seem surprised that Hank had barged in like that, and he jumped up excitedly to greet him. Joey was a skinny, weak kid, and he seemed kind of proud that he had a big brute like Hank for a friend: I could hear it in his voice as he introduced Hank.
"How you doing Hank?" I said. We had met briefly before.
He just grunted without even looking at me. Standing over the record spinning on the turntable, scrutinizing it, he said, "This record really sucks, man." Then he pretended to accidentally spill some beer on the record. Actually, he didn't even really pretend: he just upended the can and dumped out a bunch of beer on the record. But after he had done this, he said, "Oops!" Joey was upset: "What the hell?! Hank, don't do that!"
"Oh, sorry man. I'll dry it off," Hank said. Then he ripped the record off the turntable--producing a horrible scratching sound. He carried the record over to the wall and wiped it off, rubbing it around and around in a circular motion on the rough concrete wall of the basement.
Joey was running back and forth hysterically. "Hank," he whined, "Now you've ruined my record!"
"It was no good to begin with," Hank said, and he whipped the record across the basement like a frisbee. It shattered into pieces against the far wall over in the storage area, the pieces scattering out amidst the boxes and other junk that was stored there. Of course Hank's actions would have sucked even if this had been a really shitty album. But for God's sakes it was Beggar's Banquet. I thought, what could anyone have against the Stones? Stunned to silence, I kept waiting for an explanation for this prank, but none ever came, and Hank left soon after that. I also remembered the time Hank tried out for the football team. The coach was overjoyed: even if Hank couldn't move, he could just stand there and nobody could run through him. But the coach knew there was something funny about the whole scenario. He approached me--in the belief that since that since both Hank and I were pot-smoking weirdos, I must be his friend--and begged me to talk to Hank and make sure he joined the team. I told him not to bother, that he'd be better off having nothing to do with Hank. It turned out that the only reason Hank tried out was to get a free physical, which they gave to all players at the beginning of each year. He got his free physical, then told the coach to fuck off. He never hit the field. I don't know why he needed a physical: I'm sure all the doctor told him was to go on a diet. Anyway, I definitely managed to create some tension when I was questioning people about the rock. I got the feeling that they all knew who did it, and certainly didn't approve, but were afraid to and I guess my rage had overcome my fear. I went up to him, being sure to appear as crazed as possible:
"OK, Hank. What about you?"
"Yeah, what about me, man?" Hank said, taking a draw on his cigarette.
"You did it didn't you?" I said. I had my fists clenched at my side.
"No. I don't know who did it."
"I know you did it. Just admit it."
Hank flicked away his cigarette as he slid his ass off the car and stood: "So what if I did?"
"Just say the word, man. I'll kick your ass." I was serious: even though he surely would've whipped me, I was ready to fight. I thought I had him worried--though it may have been my imagination. But certainly he wasn't used to too many people threatening him, so at the very least he was puzzled. He hesitated a long time before he replied:
"Man, I'm twice your size."
"I don't give a fuck how big you are! Just admit that you did it, and I'll smash your face!"
"I didn't do it," Hank said. "And you wouldn't dare touch me anyway."
"Try me. Just admit it," I said. "Admit it. I'll jump on you and pound your head in."
"I didn't do it," he insisted.
That seemed to be the end of it. I turned away from him and loudly addressed the whole group: "Well, whoever did it is a big fat pussy!" Then I walked back down to the fire and grabbed a beer and drained it. Though my head still hurt, I calmed down considerably and began to think rationally once again. I knew it was that fat motherfucker, but I sure was glad he hadn't spoken up.