Mr. Write's Page

September 21, 2008.

I went to Simon Johnson’s 80th birthday celebration in Sugar Hill last Saturday. By my reckoning, 100 or more relatives and Sugar Hill notables were in attendance. Spirits were high, food was plentiful.

Simon’s wife Caroline was weak from a chemo treatment the day before, but she was there.

Simon was in his glory. He sat in a large rocking chair, engaging in extended, animated conversation with every person who stopped to pay his or her respects. Someone said the scene reminded them of Don Corleone in The Godfather.

The celebration was still young when Betty called to say she would arrive in a few minutes. Having just dispatched a full plate of hors d’oeuvres, and needing to walk it off, I headed outside to wait for her. I left the auditorium, walked down the hall, and went out through the swinging entrance doors into the parking lot.

Suddenly, behind me, I heard a loud thump and a chorus of shouts. I turned back to see the entrance doors burst open from the weight of two men rolling on the floor, fighting, gouging, and cursing.

Both men were 50-ish, stocky and balding. They were grunting and straining, and from their prone positions, taking every opportunity to land blows on the other.

One of the combatants was especially vocal. “I hope you die!“ he shouted. While one hand gripped the lapel of his adversary, the other hand rained down blow after blow, ill-aimed and ineffective though they were.

Quickly, several man stepped in and separated the two. They were hauled to their feet, and the vocal one, but only the vocal one, was restrained. Two men forcibly held his arms at his side as he continued to grunt, struggle, and occasionally laugh.

After the action had rolled past the entrance doors, the doors swung shut and separated the men from the celebrants inside. It’s possible that only the guests near the food table and the entrance were aware of the fracas.

But I was standing outside, 10 yards away, and witnessed everything that went down. The vocal man continued to strain, kick, and spit curses as he was carried toward a nearby car. Someone opened a rear door. The vocal man was shoved inside, and the door was quickly slammed.

Once inside the car, the man became quiet. I could see two other figures in the car: an elderly woman in front and an elderly man in back. All in the car were now calm and unmoving.

The non-vocal combatant walked slowly back toward the front of the building, talking earnestly with the small group of subduers. As they reached the steps, Simon’s son Tommy emerged from the building.

“I’m so sorry about this, Tommy,” the man said. “Please apologize to Simon and Sherry for me.” Tommy patted him on the back and muttered something I could not make out.

As the group of men returned to the party, the non-vocal man walked back to the vehicle and got behind the wheel. He started the engine, backed out of the parking space, and drove slowly away.

Betty soon arrived, unaware of the drama she missed by mere seconds. “Hi, Rock,” she said cheerfully. “What’s been happening?”

When Betty and I got inside, we asked Lee about the fight. He said he had heard the commotion, but had no idea what it was about.

But most of the guests, I suspect, know the complete backstory. In a place like Sugar Hill, everybody knows everything there is to know.