This past Saturday, my buddy Chuck and I – him driving – stopped for gas on
Del Mar Ave. and Newport Blvd in Costa Mesa.
The choice of this particular station, a hybrid of gas pump and Jack in the Box restaurant, was an intentional pick by Chuck, who for the past several hours while we sweated in the 95-degree heat in our full on valet parker monkey suits, had been clamoring for an Oreo milkshake. We punched out of our moonlighting gig at around 10 p.m. that evening, and to the Jack in the Box/Gas station we went.
When we made it to the station, every pump was taken. We thought a car was going to move, but then noticed the girl in the driver's seat was texting while her boyfriend was inside paying for the gas. Chuck circled the car around the pumps, waited a few minutes and no one left. Oh, but now the same girl really was leaving, so we quickly rounded the pumps again and positioned ourselves to take the spot as soon as she drove out.
Chuck noticed that another car was now waiting for the same spot.
“I don't even care how mad these people get,” Chuck says, “I'm taking this pump.”
Chuck pulls in ahead of the other car and I hear some screaming. It seems like far-off screaming directed at someone else, but a glance in the rear view mirrors shows some pissed off dude stomping toward us.
The guy is like 21 years old, probably 6 feet tall, and about 190 solid pounds. He's wearing a “Tap Out” mixed-martial-arts shirt, has a shaved head (909er?). “You better fucking move mother fucker or I'll fucking fuck your shit up!” he yells.
Thinking I can talk this guy down, I jump in and say, “Hey, we were actually here first.”
Chuck, who just looks exhausted, looks to me and says, “Derek, don't talk.” He looks at the guy and says, “Oh, you were waiting for that pump, here, let me move and I'll get the next one.”
“Yeah your damn right, you fucking pussy” the guy says. So Chuck pulls out, and another pump opens almost immediately. He parks it and starts to pump the gas.
Meanwhile, everyone at their respective pumps are now staring at this guy, giving him admonishing looks. He stares back in defiance. “What the fuck are you faggots looking at!?” he yells at some guys who are just standing there.
Then he pulls off his “Tap Out” shirt and starts stomping around calling everyone in the gas station “faggots,” and saying he's going to kick everyone's ass. Then he starts punching himself in the head to prove how hard his head is, then he pounds his bare chest until it's red.
Then he kicks it up a notch. He extends his arm straight in the air and says, “White Power!”
One of the bystanders, a guy with a shaved head and a goatee says, “What are you talking about? Everyone here is white.” I look around and see that the majority of the bystanders are in fact white men from ages 25 to 40. A lone Hispanic woman walks away.
Then the shaved head/goatee guy says, “I used to be white power, but now I know better and I hate Hitler.” Then he shows the shir-toff dude a tattoo on his calf. Then the dude with his shirt off shows off his calf, full of tattoos and declares the other guy's tattoos “pussy-shit.”
Then the two start arguing about who is more white power. Pretty soon, other people start heckling the shirt-off dude, calling him an idiot and telling him to go home. This makes the shirt-off dude angrier, which causes him to tell everyone once again how he's going to “fuck” them “up.”
Then the guy with the shaved head and goatee says, “You know what? I'm so sick of you, you little punk. Why don't you come over here? I've got something in my trunk for you.”
Strangely enough, the shirt-off guy starts walking over as he's reaching in the trunk. I was guessing gun at this point, but I don't think anyone really knew what he was about to pull out of the trunk.
He brings out a three-foot long metal pole. Everyone just stood there and watched.
The shaved head, goatee guy takes an all-out Barry Bonds swing with the metal pole and the shirt-off guy just sticks his hands in the air, exposing his midsection. The pole hits the shirt-off guy full-force, right in his rack of ribs.
For some reason, probably because of movies, I expected him to go flying backwards, or at least belly over in pain, but the guy's face just becomes expressionless. He doesn't even hold his ribs in response to the injury. He just gets real quiet and walks back to his car and gets in.
Now the guy who the shirtless guy earlier called a “faggot” starts laughing and says, “I guess you better 'Tap Out,' ha ha ha,” as he mockingly taps himself on the chest, “'Tap Out,' tough guy.” (Making fun of his shirt).
A few moments later everyone left, and Chuck drove through the drive thru and got an Oreo shake. It took at least 10 minutes, and no police showed up.
