My Cardboard Balcony

Barbecue Brawl by Belinda Roddie A flip-out at a cook-out with a high turn-out sends the patties flying like frisbees and the sausages spiraling like the footballs at the Super Bowl. One drunk bastard gets a faceful of hot spatula, and soon, it's an all-out, full-out coliseum scene where even the gladiators would cast down their tridents in confusion and disgust. The girls kick off their flip-flops and use them as slapping bludgeons against the bellowing beasts of brothers and boyfriends. The fathers and uncles squirt condiments into each others' eyes. The mothers don't cry over the mess because they're fighting, too, striking at throats with long nails and folded paper plates because no one actually wants to wield a sharp weapon. And throughout the melee, I sit on my stained and rusty lawn chair, quietly munching on an overcooked mish-mash of blackened beef with just the right amount of ketchup.

"What am I going to tell the families?" I demanded, the phone receiver shaking in my sweaty hand. "What am I going to tell the city?" The voice on the other end was raspy, and bloated with tears as wet as winter static. "I suppose that's your question to answer," said my informant, "as you are the mayor, and I am not."