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To Paul E. Sexton 3's previous piece

Jett Black

There we stood, players
in a potentially violent farce.
Our stage, the roadside by the park.
Our antagonists, two sports car 
steroid shaved ape archetypes.

Jett Black sort of hung there. Looking 
right straight into my eyes, wondering 
what my reaction if any, would be.

Although asking, he wasn't pleading 
for assistance. He was
always brave, blissful
in his delusion born confidence.

He wasn't a graceful dancer.
He wasn't a ladies man.
He only believed himself to be
these, and a host of other things.

This was the man who had suffered many beatings.
One from a female skinhead that he never quite lived down.
One from a camouflage clad weekend warrior theatre patron,  
an unnecessary challenge
that had earned him massive reconstructive surgery.

This was the man who had inadvertently provided
free pizza, a mirthful manager's reward
for making the "annoying guy" wait outside.

He was kind, possessed of a good heart and a 
faithful friend, but he didn't have to scream "fuck you"
at the passing car.
He shouldn't have.
It was only a leisurely stroll down the street.
He could have kept his mouth shut.
He should have.

The words I heard while mighty hands squeezed
chicken neck, two foot Mohawk 
standing at attention, 
were ridiculously deliberate like under rehearsed 
Film Noir dialogue.

"Do you have a problem with this?"
a cartoon voice barked, half smile on tan face.

There was a long pause.

"No man, not me" my only response.

Moments later, slapped around and tossed aside
once again alone in our half-real world,
a disappointed Jett Black,
couldn’t comprehend 
the lack of aid.

The only words I had to offer, 
although I doubt he understood, were:

“Some things just have to be what they are”

In that moment standing there 
a truth had become suddenly clear.

Jett, and many other things in life
would simply have to be
what they are.

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