Sunday, June 29, 2003
I’m A People Person
"You know, some people might think what you’re doing is pretty rude.”
“Rude?”
“Yeah. Insensitive. Impolite. Rude.”
He balls up his fists and leans over me, pressing his knuckles into the dingy tabletop. “You think you’re gonna teach me manners?”
I take a moment before responding. I look at his knuckles, his fists, his thick forearms and tribal tricep tattoo. His belly is broad and I see he’s starting to breathe a little faster. He’s clenching his jaws tightly, glowering down at me. I want to pick my words wisely. He looks kinda drunk and he might be hard to hurt in a fair fight. I go for a sip of my beer. He grabs my wrist, pushes my arm back down to the tabletop. Enough with the “fair fight.” I’m going to use a weapon on him, one against which he seems ill-prepared to defend himself.
I lay my free hand over his fat mitt and look up to his face. “Yeah?,” he snarls at me.
“Yeah,” I drawl back, relaxing my features. “I’ll tell you something, buddy. You’re making it mighty attractive to get up and show you what I mean. But something… something’s making me hesitate.”
“Yeah. You don’t want me to break your nose.”
“You’re on the right track, buddy,” I reply with a smile on my lips. “I look at you and I see what they call an unknown quantity. I can see your arms, your fists. Just like you can see mine. But there’s a lot I don’t know about you, that I can’t see just by looking at you. Right? Like I don’t know if you were in the Army. Or the Marines. Or maybe a Navy Seal?” I pause for a moment as he glances up to my very short hair. “I don’t know what kind of special forces training you’ve got. How long since you were last certified. Where you were posted. What you did there. How many times you’ve had to prove that you can hurt a man. Hurt him big.”
My voice has lulled him just a little. Moving faster than he expected, I seize his pinky finger from the hand that’s pinning my own hand to the table. Grab finger, wrench up and back. I’m pushing hard and it gives - his hand releases mine, and as I continue to push the finger toward the back of his hand he leans back to minimize the pressure on the knuckle. This brings his head within grasping range, and without releasing the thick digit in my left hand I reach up and grip his left ear with my right hand, pulling it tightly into my fist until I can feel the skin begin to tear away from his head. Levering him with both my hands I push him further back and down. He steadies himself with his free hand against the edge of the table, drops to one knee. He doesn’t want to fall. His face is next to mine now and he’s not moving, trying not to exacerbate the situation. I’m ready to dislocate his finger and tear off his ear. He has gone quite pale.
His eyes are open very wide. My voice is quiet, breathy as I continue to pursue my line of inquiry: “I don’t know how many times you’ve killed. Armed, or hand-to-hand. I don’t know if you’re licensed to carry a firearm. If you’re carrying one right now. Too many questions for my comfort. Now, there’s one way for me to find out the answers - but I don’t like it. Too many risks. I don’t know what I’ll learn. So I’m gonna take the easy way out. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. I’m gonna let you walk out of here with all your secrets intact. You okay with that?”
In a pinched whimper he says, “Yeah.”
I repeat it back: “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“Later on, then, buddy.” I watch him leave, silhouetted against the glare of the open doorway, holding his pinky carefully in the crook of his arm. I reach for my beer but my hand is shaking too hard to pick it up.
