Sign Language by Paul John S

Author:Paul, John S.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Perseus Books, LLC

As the two wrestled for position, JR scraped skin off an elbow and a knee, tearing through the soft cloth of his new outfit. He was perhaps the stronger, and it was going his way until . . .

Looking for Guido and some help in the fight he saw the punch from black-beard land on his partner’s cheek. In a blur he registered his friend’s retreat: “I’m going to make a phone call . . .” From the ground he saw Guido hurry disgustedly into the restaurant. This tactic left the tall man free to casually kick JR on the pate with the toe of his boot. It seems this boot was fitted with a metal plate—protruding, just enough to cut to bone. A fresh scalp wound began to gush, just as one of the girls sat on his chest and tried with determination to get her fingernails into a bare eyeball.

The moment went dark in JR’s eyes. The eyes under attack remained shut tight. In that instant he knew his hesitation had been a grave error. He had chosen DON’T WALK instead of WALK, and now found himself in a love-battle with fiends from Hackensack. Guido was right. This had nothing to do with them, with art, with ambition, with money, with loving beautiful women. Choose WALK and life is beautiful. He and Guido would finish the strolling argument the same way they always did. They would agree to help each other in the fight to get to the top, try to make a few bucks, stay alive in that spirit that makes good art, buy each other another beer . . .

As in those legendary tales when adrenaline and muscle team up to save a life, JR sat up, moving against those heavy bodies which oppressed and harmed. Like Lazarus from the dead, he felt himself sitting up with a righteous and liberating power. In a moment of blind faith he tipped the balance of resistance needed to be free. Against all odds he got to his feet. The four tormentors tried to hold their prey by the shirt, a rag that soon flapped empty in their hands like a flag of surrender. JR had slipped out of his shirt like a diving duck into deep water, and was next seen streaking east on Bleecker Street.

Still in a panic he cut through the alley behind the Grand Union, behind David Davis Art Supplies, toward the green lawns of the University high-rises. Blind from rage and fear his legs kept going until they caught the sidewalk courtesy chain that scythed him down onto the soft dark grass. There were no pursuers. He was safe. Then he vomited from the emotional mess, a cold sweat on his half-naked body. Guido soon arrived with his torn shirt and helped him up.

Back on the corner, the raiding party got back in their car, the sturdy wrestler now clamping his head with both hands, as if shaking off a migraine. He stroked his spiky mop, muttering and cursing, “Faggots!” They drove away.

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