Sign Language

The more we got to know each other, the less Jeff and I talked. It wasn’t for lack of common ground. We’d spent many weekends together camping and climbing at Devil’s Lake in Wisconsin and around southern Illinois; after classes, we’d huddle at Chicago’s Gravity climbing gym or traverse shot-holed blocks along the lake or do laps on the underside of campus stairwells in our down jackets. It’s just that over time our communication had become decidedly less verbal. Seen across the quad, two hands pulling down holds in the air was the understood sign for climbing. Cracking an imaginary cold one suggested an evening of beers, frozen Little Debbie snack cakes, and reruns of “Star Trek: The Next Generation.” Through grunts, squawks, and hand gestures, we could recount memories and inside jokes, like frying insects with the high-powered laser he built in his lab, drawing indecent cartoons over photos in climbing mags, and imitating the sour Fontainebleau locals who wagged a finger at my chalk bag and scolded, “Interdit! Verboten!”