A Scatter of Sirens and Split Light

On a Friday night, we’re standing on my deck, the electric blue and red bouncing off our wine glasses. There are dozens of them, yelling, jumping, punching, kicking. As the anger grows, so too does the mob. They swarm from all corners of the dark alley, throwing fists into the air before they even have a chance to make contact with someone’s face.

They are angry, so angry.

One cop car, lights bouncing. Then two, then four, then six, then eight: the alleyway a scatter of sirens and split light. The chopper hovers in – wide beam spotlight highlighting the faces of young men with nothing better to do. The men scatter like ants under a magnifying glass – their skin beginning to smolder with the heat of the sun.

Paddy wagon, fire truck, ambulance: a regalia of city force making little impact on the spreading mob mentality take nearly two hours to clear the area. Media trucks with tall satellite towers and coiffed reporters with painted red lips arrive nearly as fast as the emergency services.

We are drunk and this is just another spectacle side effect of living in a city getting too big for its small town roots. It’s no different watching it from your balcony than it is on your TV. The plot’s just the same:

“…a combination of liquor and testosterone culminated in an all-out brawl outside a downtown bar last evening. The nearly 30 culprits – who have yet to be identified – swarmed two police officers as they attempted to break up a fight between two bar patrons. City Police contribute the riot to over-consumption of alcohol…”

This infection of violence is spreading: a super virus gnawing on the fleshy fabric of our city.

I’m awoken by the pop! pop! of gunshots at 2:30am the next Thursday. Screams filter up through my fourth story bedroom window. I am awake, staring in disbelief at the club-goers scurrying through the parking lot behind my building. This time, there are no cops.

The crowd disperses into two vehicles – one on either end of the parking lot. The vehicles lurch forward, grills growling, headlights off. They charge at one another, speed up as they get closer.

Smash!

They back up, rev forward again.

Smash!

The drivers are pressing heavy feet into gas pedals – a tug of war; as one car loses ground, the other gains. A back and forth of metal and squealing rubber.

A woman crawling on the ground grabs a shirt lying under the only tree. She is crying or laughing – hard to tell from so far up. She smushes the shirt up under her nose, barely noticing the heavy metal match up battling behind her.

One lonely cop car races around the corner from the far end of the alley. The two cars – racing toward each other again – swerve and speed out opposite ends of the parking lot, hoods crumpled.

The woman runs, still holding the shirt to her face.

Here is the cop car. The chopper. The ambulance. Fixtures of an urban scene becoming too commonplace in my own backyard.

xoxo

M.L. H’art

Photo Credit: Lucas Boutilier