Growing up in the Bronx, small things had a way of turning into big moments. One time, I got into a fight with a friend from the block over something as simple as a black Pilot marker.
Back then, a lot of us were into tagging. We were just kids trying to leave our mark around the neighborhood, even if it meant writing on walls that were already worn down. It wasn’t something to be proud of, but it was part of the culture at the time.
This friend used to come to my house all the time. We were close, so when my marker disappeared, I had a pretty good idea who took it. Not long after, I started seeing his tag around the neighborhood in fresh black ink. When I asked him about it, he denied everything. But in his rush to leave my place one day, he forgot one of his comic books behind.
I decided to keep it. In my mind, it was a fair trade. If he wasn’t going to admit it, then the comic was staying with me. Funny thing is, I still have that comic today. I’m sure the marker didn’t last long.
Not long after that, we were outside with the usual group. The topic came up again, and words were exchanged. He wanted his comic back but still wouldn’t admit to taking my marker. I told him the comic was staying with me. That’s when things turned into a fistfight.
We used to mess around and play-fight all the time, so I thought I could handle myself. What I didn’t realize was how much bigger and stronger he had gotten. Once the punches started flying, it didn’t take long to see I was outmatched. He got me on the ground and mounted me, and at that point I was just trying to protect myself.
One of my closest friends saw what was happening and stepped in before things got worse. He pulled the guy off me, and once we were all back on our feet, the fight was over. Nobody jumped anyone, and nobody tried to keep it going. I lost, plain and simple, and everyone understood that.
Later that day, some older guys from the neighborhood came around asking what happened. They wanted to know if it had been a jump or something unfair. We told them the truth—that it was a one-on-one fight and my friend only stepped in so I wouldn’t get seriously hurt. It was a little ironic, since those same older guys weren’t exactly known for fighting fair themselves.
A few weeks later, the guy I fought came back around. This time he admitted he had taken the marker and tried to make it right by giving me another one. It was already dried up, but we both laughed about it. I told him the comic was still mine, and that was the end of it.
Looking back, it wasn’t really about the marker or the comic. It was about friendship, pride, and learning who would step in when things got real. Not long ago, I spoke to the friend who pulled him off me, and he told me that was one of his proudest moments as a kid. I thanked him again. We don’t see each other much these days, but that kind of loyalty sticks with you for life.
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