People in Jersey City PG (PreGentrification) often had a peculiar take on things. Case in point:
Back in the late-’70s, an altercation arouse in a local basement (anti?)social club. Someone tried to pull a gun. Another someone correctly realized that the placing of both hands on the small of the back was not an isometric exercise and so launched an attack, pulling the armed and wannabee dangerous off balance with the left hand while using the right like a hammer to strike the head. Confused by the blows, the man with the gun didn’t complete the draw, but did pull the trigger. Echoing off of the stone walls of the small space, the gunshots sounded like cannon. Blood spraying in every direction, the pair spun about until the shooter finally slumped to the ground. The room had been dark, but just then, the lights went on. Two guys lay on the cement floor. One was the failed desperado, a portion of his scalp hanging in a flap. The other was a big kid, Bob, a weight lifter who lived with his mom a few doors down.
When the EMS got there, the troublemaker had already gotten to his feet, but was — as might be expected — quite dazed. The emergency crew quickly ascertained that though a lot of stitches were going to be needed, there was nothing threatening life. The real concern was for the strong man who they assumed to be a shooting victim. Curiously, though considerably blood splattered, there was no wound and so none was his. Finally, with the help of smelling salts, he regained consciousness. It turned out that after having heard the gun go off, when the lights lit he looked down and saw what had been a white t-shirt transformed into a canvas for a simply scarlet Jackson Pollock; Bob passed out.
THE POINT BEING: the incident was long remembered, but not for the gun, not for the fight but — with loud guffaws — for “the time Bob thought he was shot and fainted.”
