Domestic Violence Theatre

By Misty Nuckolls

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

No matter how badly I was lost, I should have known I was on Troost, just by the car in front of me.

'94, '95 maybe, Ford Festiva, patchy paint, shocks sagging comically on the driver's side. Well, no wonder, the woman behind the wheel must have been at least four hundred pounds, if her mammoth neck and sloping glacier shoulders were any indication.

The passenger was a man, average-sized, in do-rag and enough bling that it shone even at the back of his neck, from one car back. He was getting the ever-loving shit beaten out of him.

I was yelling obsceneties at the driver, probably cursing her to die of syphilis in a back alley of Calcutta, because of her driving. Once I saw exactly *why* she was driving like a retarded tweeker on sedatives, though, I just couldn't help but follow.

You'd think that such a violent argument would require her to make some movements of her head and body that didn't involve her right fist, but you'd be wrong. But no. Of course, maybe this wasn't an argument, maybe this is just how these two people pass the time on a Tuesday lunchtime drive through downtown.

Anyway, about twice, maybe three times per block, and nearly incessantly at red lights, that fist went. Pow. Pow. Pow. She looked like she knew what she was doing, like she did this a lot. Then again, so did he. Several times his head recoiled from her blows with such force that it rebounded off his window and hit her fist again of its own accord. At times she maintained a rhythm reminiscent of those balloon-on-a-rubber-band punching toys I loved so much as a child. No slapping, no grabbing, just punch, punch, punch to the side of his head, which, when it wasn't being buffeted about like a pinball, was bowed over his lap.

I finished the drive to my husband's work in a state of wonder. As in, I wonder if she supports him financially, or can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, or even less likely, if he deserved it. And I wonder why, if I saw a woman being beaten like that, I'd have been on the phone to 911 before the second punch landed, but in this case, I just followed for half a dozen blocks like the scene before me was a particularly engaging television program.

Mostly, though, I just wonder what more ludicrous bits of street theatre this strange new city has in store for me.

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Posted by OtherJoel (anonymous) on March 25, 2008 at 8:52 p.m. (Suggest removal)

That reminds me of the time in Springfield, MO when I lived below someone who dealt certain recreational substances and had some pretty scary guests. I pretended a lot of things didn't happen since you don't want to make enemies of people in that line of work.

One night I hear screaming and crashing in the stairwell, and then it moved outside. I looked out the window and I see a rather small woman wailing on this redneck tweeker dude. It wasn't even funny -- she had him on the ground, beating the living shit out of the poor bastard. The fight had moved into the street, and my neighbor was not there (he probably threw them out), so I called the cops. The fight continued down the street, and I saw the lights from the cop car, so I assume they took care of it. I didn't ask my neighbor, and he never mentioned it to me.

Missouri rules.

Posted by wbabbit (Will Babbit) on March 26, 2008 at 9:16 a.m. (Suggest removal)

Again, welcome to the neighborhood Misty!

Don't you have a video phone? That is youtube material!

Posted by alm77 (anonymous) on March 26, 2008 at 10:24 a.m. (Suggest removal)

I hope he was an adult with his own free will and not her teenage son or something.

Posted by mitzibel (Misty Nuckolls) on March 26, 2008 at 10:33 a.m. (Suggest removal)

Eh, I'm pretty sure he was grown.

Thanks, Will, and it was awesome to meet you and Margaret. We'll have to do that again, and soon.

Posted by wbabbit (Will Babbit) on March 26, 2008 at 11:05 a.m. (Suggest removal)

Trey said he's cooking!

Posted by beatle919 (Marcy McGuffie) on March 27, 2008 at 2:40 p.m. (Suggest removal)

How...awkward! Sounds a lot like my neighbor(s) down the street.

Posted by ladylaw (Terry Bush) on March 28, 2008 at 4:45 p.m. (Suggest removal)

I do wonder about how we all usually react to violence when the woman is the one doing the beating. I am pretty sure most of us - including myself - would be far less likely to call the authorities when a male is the victim. Why is that do you suppose? I bet there are plenty of women who can abuse just as well as any man!

Posted by billy (Billy Keefe) on April 1, 2008 at 1:26 p.m. (Suggest removal)

I remember the first time I drove down Troost. I thought I had landed in another world and I wanted to go home. My partner's grandmother's house is nearby on Cherry Street. You can see what kind of neighborhood it used to be, small post war houses, big back yards with gardens and clothes lines. Large front stoops where the neighbors who all know each other pass the time. It is sad to see so many people hurting.

Domestic Violence Theatre

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