The Hardest Thing

people in; as far as I’m concerned they could pack it to the rafters, douse it with gasoline and I’d strike the match, but I have rent to pay. I was standing in the doorway, arms folded and feet planted a yard apart—which, in doorman’s language means “stay where you are.” I never try to look hostile—it doesn’t help—but there’s enough of the marine about me to warn off all but the most determined jerk.
    And here he was.
    Twenty-two, twenty-three years old. Six feet tall, 180 pounds, buzz-cut blond hair, broken nose, wearing jeans that were already ripped when he bought them, a tacky leather jacket and—wouldn’t you know it?—a Ramones T-shirt. He was the alpha male in his little dog pack, and he was getting pissed off. His girlfriend was snapping her gum and sulking; she didn’t like waiting on the street and thought a real man would whisper in the doorman’s ear and sail right on through. So Blondie could either start something, or lose face.
    He started something.
    “Hey, let us in, man.”
    “No can do.”
    “Just fucking let us in.”
    I said nothing, looked him in the eye. Under different circumstances, I would be very happy to push the little punk to his knees and bury that pretty face in my polyester crotch; the thought was a nice one, and I must have smiled.
    “What’s so fucking funny, asshole?”
    He was a couple of inches taller than me, but I moved my arm a little and let him see the muscle. Come on, cutie, back down, I thought. Let’s play nicely.

    “What’s your problem, dude?”
    “Right now,” I said, “my problem is you.”
    “Hey!” That gangster accent was not the one he learned at his Mama’s knee. “Don’t fuck wit’ me, shit-head.” The blood was rushing to his neck and cheeks. He could talk tough, but he was getting nervous.
    “I’ll fuck with you any way I like, sir.” I kept my voice soft, my breathing controlled. After Kosovo and Helmand Province, the Panther Club isn’t such a big challenge.
    “Oh, yeah?” He looked around for encouragement. The whole line was watching; this was as good as a warm-up act. “Well, go ahead.” He stood right in front of me, bouncing on the balls of his feet. One move—a hand whipped out like a striking snake, a swift rotation, a grinding “click”—and his girlfriend would be a widow before she’d even married.
    “Sir,” I said, sounding like a robot, “please get back in line. We’ll be letting you in soon.”
    “I don’t like your attitude, baldie.” His pupils were dilated, the vein in his forehead standing out.
    “I’ll have to ask you to leave now.”
    “Fuck off.”
    Passers-by were stopping, adding to his audience. I stepped forward, close enough to feel the heat from under that tacky leather jacket. It would be a shame to mess him up, but he should know better than to use people’s hair-loss issues against them. I’ve been balding since my midtwenties; all that’s left now is a dark band around the back and sides, which I keep clipped.
    “Hey, buddy,” I said, “why don’t you and your friends take a walk?”

    “Make me, faggot.”
    I felt a little fire kindle in my stomach, but I wasn’t going to let it show. I maintained eye contact and said, “That’s Mister Faggot to you, sir.”
    Not the most original reply in the world, but it had its effect. Blondie was wrong-footed, and missed his chance for a smart comeback. People in the line—even his friends—were laughing. One of the onlookers, an old lady with long grey hair who I saw walking up and down East 9th Street twenty times a night, cackled like a witch. “Woooooh!” she hooted, shaking her hands above her head like a crazy preacher, “You tell him, honey! Kick his fucking ass!”
    I didn’t need this. “Ma’am, please don’t get involved.”
    Too late. Blondie, realizing that he’d picked on the wrong bald faggot, found a new target. “I’ll kick your fucking ass, bitch,” he said, striding out of line toward the old lady. She didn’t flinch, but kept cackling.
    “Oh, baby,” she said, one hand on her hip, the other holding on to her shopping cart, “you wouldn’t touch a harmless little old gal like me, now would you?” Her accent was southern, the S’s whistling softly through gaps in her teeth.
    “Shut up, freak,” said Blondie, “I’ll break your scrawny fucking neck.” His fists were bunched, and he needed to hit something—but again, he’d made a bad choice.
    “Oh, yeah?” said the