Sticks

"What are those?"

"Sticks," I replied in shock.

One minute we were driving cross town. The next we were witness to a group of men beating each other with sticks.

"Should we call the police?" I asked.

"Somebody else will," said the man with whom I shared my cab. He laid his head back against the seat as I watched in horror.

A large group of men ran, stopped, at the corner by the Verizon Center, with fists and sticks flying. T-shirts were torn. Blood flowed. We waited for the light to change.

The man directed us to his apartment. His dorm. Georgetown Law. Sirens blared in the background.

"See, someone called the police."

The law student handed over his cash and crawled out of the cab.

"Who does that?" the cab driver asked, speaking for the first time. I didn't know if he meant the aspiring lawyer or the men with sticks. I didn't have an answer.