Arious yawns while pushing his board through the Chinatown streets. He swerves a dog walking a man, yeah, what I just said yo. The streets are a blur. A female friend from a few years ago, waves at him. He skates by. She thinks he’s ignoring her. She’ll never get over it. All he can think of is the scroll.

He stops at a light. As cars fly past, light from the falling sun makes him squint. He catches focus on a wall filled with graffiti. He suddenly remembers a calligrapher who was hired by Yung years ago. There was some work that had to be done for the restaurant. The name alludes him, but he knows where the calligrapher’s shop is. Yung had driven to the shop back then.

As he changes his route, he recklessly skates against traffic. Somebody calls him the “N” word. He responds with the “F” word. It’s whatever. He’s skating with traffic, this guy is off near the Smith projects.

He arrives about 15 minutes after his epiphany. A broken sign and foggy windows make it look like the location sells used mattresses. He turns a knob and enters the arid shop. There are several desks, with piles of old books, all of which is illuminated by flickering fluorescent lights.

As he navigates the maze a figure is visible behind a desk. It’s the calligrapher. He’s Chinese, 40 years ago, someone may have called him a young man. His face looks like he is constantly constipated. His farts stink worse than anyone you know.

The calligrapher removes his glasses.

“How can I help you?”

Arious suddenly recalls the calligrapher’s name.

“Are you Mr. Ling? Not sure if you remember me, I think my father asked you to do some work a couple of years ago, for our restaurant.”

“Hmmm. Yes. Your name, I don’t think I remember it. But yes, Yung, your guardian or father as you say. I remember him.”

Arious gives him a what-you-talking-about-Willis.

“I’m busy. Why are you here?”

The calligrapher leans back in his leather chair. Arious looks to his left and right.

“Well?”

Arious removes the scroll from his knapsack. He looks at the calligrapher and then the wooden desk. He pushes the Chinese newspaper to the side and before Ling can swear at him, he unravels this scroll.

The calligrapher’s mouth is agape. He stands and looks down at the scroll. It’s worn, it’s tattered, but the writing, the style, he’d never seen anything that looked like it.

“I need help deciphering this writing,” says Arious.

“Where on earth did you get this?

Arious says nothing. Ling grabs a magnifying glass from a draw. He inspects the document gently. His hand is on his chin. He plays with his goatee.

“I might be able to help you decipher this. It looks like it is at least a century old.”

Arious is motionless. A century old? Get the F-word out of here, he thinks to himself. He knows that it is time to go. He closes the scroll. As he finishes, Ling places a hand on his.

“How much do you want for it?”

“Sir I didn’t come here to sell it or have it appraised. I came here to get help reading it. Now, can you please move your hand?”

Arious creates a fist. Ling looks into his eyes and there, he can see a dragon. He lets go. Arious places the scroll in his bag and starts to walk out. He looks back at Ling and all he can see is a scowl that reminds him of the way racist Chinese people look at him when he speaks their language with fluency. The what-the-hell-is-this-nigger-doing-with-my-language stare. He never gets use to it.

He exits and closes the door firmly. The sun is starting to be Audi. He starts to kick and push. He stops in the middle of the street. Another epiphany. Since the scroll looked like a form of graffiti, why not ask a writer. He looks at his iPhone. There was still time left, he headed toward a Legend of old.