Brad

I knew Brad was drunk when he walked through a tight circle of locals, including the cross-dressing bum wearing a sparkling red top. “Excuse me.” Brad said in blatant provocation. Heads turned and conversation stopped. My premonitions escalated on the way to the kebab shop, where a fight was about to break out. With another audacious “Excuse me.”, Brad walked through the angry group of Italians. The men, who were holding their friends back and saying “tranquilo!”, were confused. Who was this third party offering instigation to both sides, in English? Fortunately for Brad, they were baffled enough not to turn their mutual rage on this idiotic American, outnumbered nine to one. It seemed as if his flatmate Phillip would help defend him, but I was not convinced. Phillip threw out pacifist remarks to prevent trouble, but smiled while doing so, revealing that he was somewhat amused by Brad’s behavior. I kept my distance and regretted Phillip’s insistence on having Brad join us.

Then came a small band of leathery degenerates, the bum population of Bologna; one was walking a Labrador. “Your dog sucks.” offered Brad. The bum took thirty seconds to translate the phrase in his head then countered with, “What you say?” “I said your dog sucks.” he replied. We had reached the shop so I turned inside and hoped Brad’s existence would disappear behind me. “Solo pizze.” There was only pizza left. Whatever. “Una pezza, per favore”. Phillip ordered a slice and we turned our heads to the sound of Brad outside, “Dude, I’ve got like thirty pounds on you, what are you gonna do?” The bum with the dog and his leathery friend were confronting Brad. Phillip jumped in to diffuse the situation, “C’mon man, just come inside.” And to the bums, “He’s just drunk; don’t worry about him.” Then to Brad, “C’mon man. Forget about it.” The Bangladeshi pizza man stepped outside to witness the event then shook his head despairingly at the bums after Brad was corralled into the shop. I wanted to tell him that the bums were innocent, the American was to blame and he deserved to get his ass kicked.

As Phillip inquired with his slight smile why Brad was being such a dick, I noticed the pink gap in corner between Brad’s right eye and its socket. “That’s what people respond to; that’s how you make a connection.” he responded. “But you provoked them,” I argued. “You guys don’t know business. That’s how you establish a relationship. Dude, I’ve had clients in Moscow and Turkey, what you need to do is to provoke them.” “These aren’t businessmen; they’re just homeless people on the street.” argued Phillip. “No man, I knock out his dog, we decide on a price and make the deal. I’m telling you guys, when you study business… like, years from now you guys are gonna remember me and what I said.” I let the air out of my stomach along with my respect for Brad in an ‘oh my’ laugh then turned my head. “Dude, like… you can laugh about it, but like, years from now you’ll see what I’m taking about. Really there’s like so many people who just run away. It doesn’t matter... my GPA will be better than all of yours anyway.” I laughed out more respect. “Are you guys taking Micro? I wanna know who I’m gonna beat.” I was aghast. “Michael, I know nothing about you. What’s your background?” “Why?” I staggered. “Obviously you have an impressive background. I just wanna know it so I can learn from it.” No you don’t, you just want to compare it to yours, label it and pass judgment. “I don’t think this is the proper venue.” I replied. “If you really want to hear it, let’s meet for lunch tomorrow.” Silence. Our pizza was ready, and we began to pay. “This is why, unlike you guys, I can actually pay for school. I’ve been supporting myself.” My head dropped as I put two Euros on the counter. Brad had achieved his objective: he had provoked me into observable contempt. “I’m sorry Michael, I’m a dick, but that’s how you…” Dead air ensued while the few brain cells of Brad which were not swimming in alcohol triggered signals of remorse for words spoken. Phillip was a realist, “I think your just drunk man.”

We left the pizzeria and the potential fight from before appeared to be dispersing. The opposing sides were parting ways, but shouts remained and one guy held a glass bottle. Not interested in self-sacrifice, I walked ten steps ahead as Brad and Phillip meandered through the street. I hoped that my walking ahead would signal them to follow; despite my contempt, I didn’t wish to see them attacked. I waited at the intersection. Brad’s voice came, “Dude, I was thrown out of a car once, I was in a fight, I’m not afraid of these…” I walked on. Brad turned to Phillip, “Dude, you’re a marine, let’s do fifty push-ups right now. I bet I could beat you.” Phillip laughed, “No, man. That’s OK.” On the subject of the military, Brad stopped walking and took on a serious tone, “Hey man. My friend was a marine and I knew a guy who was a SEAL.” I kept the pace until we arrived at a break in the road. “Well guys, I’m going this way.” I said. Phillip looked confused and said, “I think our place is that way.” To which Brad replied, “No, dude. It’s this way. You can go that way, and we’ll see who gets there first.” I was done. “Ciao regazzi!” I yelled with a wave and I didn’t look back.

Later that night, Brad's vomit left the balcony of his third floor apartment and exploded on the first in fireworks of reprisal.