I was riding my scooter and when I got to 6th and Market, another guy popped a wheelie and hit me. I don’t want to make this about his appearance, but he looked super homeless. Including having one inexplicably nice thing — the bike. As we collided, I feel myself pitch forward as the bolt of the scooter snaps, and I tuck into a partial roll. It’s not fully successful and I sprained my thumb some. But I can get up. I look at my scooter. Yeah, bolts snapped off. And I start wondering how I’m going to repair it, where the scooter shop is. This is the point where I finally look up at him, because I realize he’s screaming. Five or six security guards — who I now realize were probably just employed by all the shops around — rush and form a wall between me and this guy. He’s walking around in these big exaggerated circles, screaming. And I just stare at him. Anger really is like a fist you’re holding closed on yourself. He was so mad. Dude, he was SO MAD. He accused me. “What’d you do that…
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