Talking Hands November 30
Roy routinely puts various imaginary guns to my head when greeting me, suggesting there is a large arsenal in his mind. His hands are exceedingly expressive, even when he is talking on the telephone, as if sign language makes his point. His worm-wiggle index finger means yes, a wagging finger means no. His hand-slap to the bent elbow means cheap-skating tipper, a hand-swipe beneath the chin means Chingada (fucker), a finger to the nostril the same. Sideway longhorn gestures indicate barrio affiliation. An open palm raised to the cheek may resemble Mussolini’s self-salute, but really it says Gracias.
Your hands are loaded with information. Squeezing with your thumb the first knuckle of your index finger, while leaving the other three digits clenched and upright, is bad, apparently really bad. The word for it is Huevos, but, of course, it has nothing to do with literal eggs—it’s all about testicles. This is true of many bad signs, as I learned when I raised my arm with my cheek against my armpit, where I was promptly informed by a slightly offended waiter that this means “my balls to your face.“ I put my hands behind my back, lest they inadvertently say too much.
When living in the Districto Federal last year, among the Chilangos, I studied the hand gestures of people in conjunction with their eyes and brows, to discern which frequent mannerisms were friendly and which were not. However, lacking customary mouth language, that is, actual spoken words, en Español, I made little progress. Living here in Puerto Morelos, with patient friends, I can make some headway, but not much. If I were an Italian or a Jew, I might have greater affinity for the power of the hand in conversation, but I was raised to speak with my hands in my pockets. Here this means you are hiding something—this is a place where one must show his hand in advance to be believed.
In other strange signs, a very friendly Mexican guy is wearing the USA flag as swim shorts on the beach. He loves my country so much that he sits on its national emblem. He obsesses to me about the greatness of New York, the “September-Eleven“ and the Statue of Liberty, but I change the subject when he brings up Trump. Pointing to the beach, I tell him my black pants are also a flag, indicating the lifeguard is not on duty.
Jesus motions across the palapa with his hands placed in a provocative fashion, like he is pointing a heavy pistol at me. One hand is clenched in a fist against the front of his hip. His other hand rests atop, with two extended fingers nodding like the recoil of a gun barrel. Is this yet another bad sign? Am I facing an execution threat, like the others? No, Jesus just needs to pee—and, remarkably, he has a sign for it.
In response, I raise my hand, like Mussolini.