Pulp


Loping mid-summer into a deadend of highway construction
under the anchorage of George Washington Bridge, I
leaped a divider and dashed across the racing traffic to a
wooded copse of debris and mayhem. There, a gang of young
men was stripping luxury autos, and cutting the bodies with
acetylene torches. Latino music was blaring and women were
dancing among the metallic tumult.

When I ambled into the scene in jacket, shorts and Adidas,
the melee paused, with looks of suspicion at whitey, maybe a
cop. The women melted into the woods, the men surrounded
me, tools cocked like weapons. I stood still, panting.

The men, about ten, were silent, sweating and filthy, the
music loud, the closeby traffic swishing. Their weapons,
the lit torches, hissed yellowly. They moved slowly toward
me, came very close and one held a flaming torch six inches
my face. I remained still. He darted the flame closer,
pressed the handle and a blue shaft leapt to singe my cheek
and hair. I jerked aside and kicked at his groin, missed,
fell to my knees, one hand on my cheek the other in my
jacket pocket. He laughed and stabbed the tip of the torch
into my wet hair which smoldered and stank. He turned to
his compadres and hissed muerto el gringo in spanish. From
my pocket I shot him in the kidney, pulled the pistol and
fired at the others as they fled. Turned, bent over him
and shot through his right eye. His head bounced and
sprayed muck.

I jogged over to emergency at Columbia Presbyterian for
repairs and went home by subway, head bandaged. The
Ecuadorian doorman glanced up from tv, said, elegante
sombrero Senor Juan.

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March 19, 1995