Clayton gets a beat-down

Clayton was a Black kid who worked on my unit at the Irving shipyard in Saint John. In fact, he was my apprentice for a spell, training up to be a "marine steel-fitter." He was a bright kid and a fabulous athlete. We played on the same slo-pitch team. He also played some considerably more substantial ball with a local team, but this was just a way of goofing off with the work-mates and getting free beer. Our team was sponsored by Moosehead Breweries. We all got free Moosehead ballcaps and a couple cases of beer for every game. Clayton liked his beer and his weed, so occassionally we found ourselves spending time together. This guy's family arrived in Canada about 150 years before mine, so there was never an issue about who was more "Canadian" or any identity shit like that. He had a second floor walk-up a few blocks away. One night we're sitting on his balcony having a toke and a pint,and some youthful drunken rowdies proceed down the sidewalk, making quite a ruckus. We sit in silence as they pass by. Then he tells me this story. He'd been sitting out there one eveing, and a particularly boisterous gang of rowdies was passing by. He admonished them to shut the fuck up. They replied with that most debilitating racial slur of all time, the one that today scars young Black kids with PTSD for life. Further insults, slurrs, and taunts were exchanged. "So I figure it's time I go down there and kick some ass. I mean, they're so shit-faced they can't walk a straight line. How hard can this be? After I came to in the hospital I realized my judgement might have been a little impaired too. That's why I just let the drunken assholes go on their way now." Good call, dude! Lost touch with Clayton after I left Irving's shipyard, but I have a hunch he fared out OK.