Have you ever seen a fight?
I don’t mean on TV or the movies. Or reading about one in a book.
I mean an honest-to-goodness fistfight.
On Sunday, Mom and I were heading home after grocery shopping when we got stopped by a red light. We were in the right lane and, as usual, I was checking the rear view mirror, making sure nobody was getting too close to my bumper.
Suddenly, I noticed a car pull into the far left turning lane and come to a stop. A young man emerged from the passenger side door and started walking toward the car behind him.
Another young man got out of that car, and they started beating on each other.
Right in the middle of the street, less than two blocks from the police station!
Seconds later, they were rolling on the concrete, fists flailing.
Cars swerved to avoid them. People gaped and stared.
Just as a third young man got out to join the skirmish, the light changed to green.
And, as I was first in the queue, I had to drive off.
But I did so slowly and kept watching, fearing the worst.
Someone could’ve had a gun. Or a knife.
Someone could’ve gotten hurt. Or killed.
And it wasn’t fake. It was fisticuffs.
Still, while my human heart was horrified at the sight of this slugfest, my writer’s brain was ecstatic.
I write mysteries, and some things a writer can’t — or won’t — experience for themselves.
Yet readers deserve accuracy. Gripping scenes that put them in the middle of the action.
I’ve often wondered what a fistfight would look like.
Now I know.
I just hope all those kids are okay.