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February 05, 2007
You shoulda seen the other guy.
White, mid-thirties, six-one, medium build. He kept looking down the tracks, trying to conjure the streetcar. This morning's shave had tightened up his tidy goatee, but the grooming was offset by a ragged tear in the left elbow of his brown barn jacket. He alternated his messenger bag from one shoulder to the other and windmilled his free arm.
It was the fat purple line tracing the arc of his right eye socket that made me give him a second glance. So many questions, but I could at least confirm that the slugger was right-handed.
I tried to imagine the chain of events that had pulled Slim Bookish into his weekend dust-up. The man I studied wouldn't attend a gonzo Super Bowl party or mix it up outside a Korn show. I couldn't picture him mouthing off about the relative merits of anyone's sister, mother or automobile. I wish USA TODAY or The Onion would come up with a helpful infographic: "Things That Will Get You Punched," or "What's Inspiring America's Beat-downs?"
Sitting on the trolley, I had ample opportunity to compare his mitts as he held his bag in his lap. Except for a nasty gash on his index finger, his left hand was untouched. His right looked like he'd scrubbed it with a cheese grater; skinned knuckles, and what looked like teeth marks.
"Unprovoked assault" started to make sense. When's the last time you looked at someone behind bruises and lacerations and thought, "oh yeah, unprovoked assault, definitely."? I'm a poor detective, but from the look of things, I'd guess that someone got off a sucker punch before Slim ended the argument. Except for the eye his visible wounds were all offensive, not defensive.
As the train went underground, he balled and unballed his right hand, shaking his head ever so slightly.
Probably he was going over his story for his office mates. There will be talk, after all.
Posted by Your Protagonist at February 5, 2007 10:52 AM