Someone got shot outside my apartment about 20 minutes ago. There is nothing I can do. The police are already here, they told us all to go back inside, I’m not a doctor, so there’s nothing I can do. So I blog. I don’t know what else I CAN do.
About half an hour ago I woke up to a man shouting. That’s not abnormal for this neighborhood. We have some young art students that get drunk sometimes and shout. But this is different. This exuded sadness and confusion, and a little bit of anger.
“Jehovah is my god! Jehovah is MY god! JEHOVAH! He is my god, and don’t you forget it! DON’T YOU FORGET IT!”
He chanted “Jehovah is my god” over and over. I peered out the window. Tall, black man, white t-shirt, jeans, pacing the street shouting. It seemed like a mantra to him, but like an angry mantra. I wanted to call the police at first because I was afraid something bad might happen to him. But I didn’t. I left him alone and hoped he would tire out and fall asleep in someone’s nice, soft yard. I roll over onto my right side and my husband places his arm around me and squeezes, then lets go. He loves me. Then there were gunshots.
Five. Maybe six. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! My husband holds tight to me and though my body stays in the bed, my mind rolls onto the floor. I squeeze his hand as my eyes pop open wide. Marc. Where is Marc? He’s in his bed on the other side of the house. He’s safe. Man. What about the man?
I run out into the dark living room to find my phone, but by the time it reaches my hand the police have already arrived. I peer out the window once again, nervous of any subsequent gunshots. The police seem to have been here for a few minutes already. Who shot who? Did the police shoot the man, or did the man shoot the police?
Against my husbands protests I venture outside when I see that several other neighbors have done so. As I step outside I breath in burning air. The gunshots had left their perfume behind and it was lingering. Nobody knows anything. The police can’t tell us anything. They rope of our street and put yellow plastic ribbon on the handrail up the stairs to my home. “Go inside”, says one officer. “If they see you they’ll yell at you.” Advice taken.
I check to make sure Marc is still breathing. He is. I contemplate calling the news, but change my mind with worry that news trucks will make things worse. I desperately want to do something. But there’s nothing I can do. So I blog.
I think this might have been a safe neighborhood once. I think it still is, save for one September incident. Will I feel safe tomorrow? And what of the man? Is he still alive? Was anyone else involved? What about the old woman on the corner? She’s so sweet and lent us her dolly when we needed to move a couch. What is her name? God dammit. I don’t remember. I hope she’s okay. The ambulance is directly in front of her house.
I want this to be a safe neighborhood, not a neighborhood with gunshots in the middle of the night
Its not like the man is a resident of this neighborhood. Its not like Johnny from the block and Big Steve got into it and some innocent person got caught in the crossfire.
This was a crazy man who had lost his way. He could have wondered into any neighborhood. He came at a police officer with a deadly weapon. When you do that the cop shoots you.
I’m sorry a man died but our neighborhood is not to blame. This is generally a quiet, peaceful place, is it not?