Saturday’s Story

Posted by Conrad Barman on May 14th, 2009 filed in Domicile

WARNING:  YOU PAID FOR THE WHOLE SEAT BUT YOU ONLY NEED THE EDGE!!!!

 

Imagine your average Saturday afternoon in central Austin, TX.  A young couple spends the afternoon engaged in a subtle battle against the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics and its effects on their lawn and surrounding vegetation.  It’s hot.  But it’s good.  Damn good.

However dismayed you may feel that our story does not take place in the gentle bliss of suburbia, rest easy kind friend:  this young couple is fortunate enough to live in the midst of friendly neighbors.  Neighbors who are quick to share homemade mango margaritas on such a hot afternoon.  Neighbors who vow to defend their new friends should the situation (God forbid) ever arise.  Neighbors who could and did and do laugh as easily as they curse.  Mr. Rogers be damned, these are real neighbors.

 

The afternoon of yardwork is interrupted only by the comfortable and occasional conversation between our protagonists and their patriarchal neighbor.  We’ll call him “Charles”.  In the midst of seemingly small small-talk and good humor comments on the bliss of central Austin living, the air tingles with something unfamiliar:  some kind of anticipation, mingling with a sense of something amiss.

 

To the casual observer, even the most obvious sights & sounds are dismissed and left to die in the lore of urban society.  But to our young friends, the details could not have been less discreet:  a helicopter overhead, circling tightly directly above the small community; police cars parked silently with lights flashing; policemen casually patrolling the streets on foot.

 

Something is happening.

 

Our heroes allow these curious sights to interrupt their afternoon’s work only for a moment before pondering aloud their very nature.  The basic questions of life remain unanswered as the officials of law enforcement hardly acknowledge their presence.  The anticipation builds.

 

Had these young friends not developed a tolerance to the already heightened levels of humidity, one would expect their collapse under the unbearable weight of the unknown.  But fear not, kind reader: they are young and fit and full of steadfast resolve.  They will persevere.

 

The minutes pass with fluid consistency.  The helicopter’s circle grows wider & wider.  One by one the police cars disappear into the late afternoon haze.  With a lazy Sunday-afternoon-esque attitude, one lone cruiser pauses to speak with Charles – but only to ask a question: “Have you seen a man around here?  He’s black, wearing a white shirt.”

Fantastic!  you may think.  Clues!  Leads!  Something substantial!  But now, oh reader, your lack of experience only allows for vane hope – and great disappointment.  Such a description is utterly vague at best.  “Who is he, what has he done, and why do you care?” are the immediate responses forming in the minds of our budding sleuths.  Alas, the police are rarely tolerant to such inquisitions.  The questions remain unanswered with the slightest of hesitant responses in the negative, only to confirm the officer’s fears – these civilians know nothing, have seen nothing, and are only talking to him because of their morbid curiosities.

 

Minutes pass, the air lightens, the excitement fades.

 

Our heroes return to their labor.  Birds chirp, breezes blow, somewhere in the distance a dog barks.

 

The monotony is broken with the unplanned but expected (thanks to an earlier phone call) arrival of friends.  We’ll call them “Jake & Heather” – and yes fair reader, settle down – the one and only “Jake & Heather”.  They are greeted with the sincerest of welcomes – theirs is a cherished friendship.  “Let us tell you of the East 50^th drama!”

 

And so they begin.  Sitting on the outdoor makeshift patio they converse with calm happiness.  Friendships are among the greatest sources of contentment.

 

In a perfect world, our story would end.  Lights would fade and the camera would slowly retreat to the sky, leaving the viewer with a final glimpse of two young couples happily engaged in a social bond.  But you already know this world is imperfect.  So why dally?

 

The conversation is cut short with the astute observation of our utterly beautiful heroine.  “It’s him!” she cries, unable to contain her surprise and excitement.  And fear.

 

“OK – maybe, let’s play it cool” responds our incredibly handsome hero.  Perhaps the lamest attempt at casual conversation immediately follows.  “Yeah, um, the trees are growing real nice.”  “Jake, we should be doing yardwork.”  “The house was supposed to painted a different shade of green.”

 

The mystery man approaches.  As an outside observer, imagine that you can hear a pin drop.  Now forget about it: a buzz rattles everyone’s ears, loud enough to hurt the inner ear, though without any noticeable source.

 

He is black.  Wearing a white shirt – though it is simply an undershirt (tank top).  He is holding another shirt – white, with some minimal black and red design.  He is sweating.  More than the standard Texas heat would justify.  More importantly, he is slightly out of breath.

 

“Uh – hey – um, do y’all have a phone I could borrow?”

 

The question hangs like a knife; covers the air heavier than a down comforter; suffocates the most valiant attempt to breath.  Or something like that.  There is no known metaphor worthy to describe the tension in the air – the conflict tearing apart the very souls of our friends.

(Is he the one they’re looking for?  I don’t want to give in to racial stereotypes - are the police simply profiling?  How do we know?  How can we be sure?  WHAT DO WE DO?)

 

“Um, sure, you can use our phone.”  She is caught.  Trapped.  Unable to lie.  The phone sits outside, next to the rear door – brought out to avoid missing all-important phone calls that seem to arrive daily.  The man is polite, unassuming.  Not what any of you would expect. 

 

He asks for a pen & paper – is given only a pen.  All are reluctant to open doors, to grant any sort of access to their personal lives.  The unknown spawns the greatest of fears.

 

Suddenly our heroine is given an idea.  Brilliance without equal.  She pulls her partner aside, casually.  “I’m going to Charles & Debbie’s – I’ll call the police, just in case.”

 

He agrees without hesitation and turns to the stranger.  He is still on the phone, having not uttered a single word.  Pressing buttons and writing notes to himself, he is distracted.  She makes her move, slipping into the house, out the front door, and oh-so-casually strolls across the street for a neighborly visit.  Nothing out of the ordinary.

 

The man finishes his task – returns the phone with an apology.  “Thanks.  Sorry I got your phone all sweaty”.  Our hero accepts it in return without a thought.  He is transfixed by the contradiction of manners and his own silent accusations.  All so subtle. 

 

“Man, I’m trying to get home – my car broke down, it’s hot, I’m trying to get home.  No one is coming to get me.  Can you give me a ride?  I’ll give you ten bucks to take me home.”

 

The response is quick, but polite.  Expected, though not easy.  He is polite, dammit.

 

“Um, no – no, I can’t give you a ride.  Sorry.  But there is a bus stop nearby.  Right over there on Airport – you can catch the bus.  You won’t miss the stop – it’s right over there.”

 

“I don’t have any change.”  Again, the response is expected.  But it is accompanied by the sudden show of green.  The stranger pulls a wad of bills out of his pocket.  There is only the slightest glimpse needed to confirm these are not small bills.  You would laugh at the absurdity if it were not for the growing fear.

 

Our hero notices something else.  Something so tiny and specific it would not usually catch your eye.  The stranger’s hands were skinned: the palms of his hands, evidence of a fall of some kind.  Similar to a child trying out a skateboard for the first time and bracing himself on the pavement with his bare hands.

 

Such a detail only helps to confirm the seemingly eminent truth:  this is the man.

 

Jake, a man of mystery himself, produces the exact change needed for a bus ride.  His status upgrades to mysterious superhero.  Our stranger has no choice but to accept the gracious gift. 

 

“Where is that bus stop again?”

 

“Right this way – stay on 50^th to Airport.  You can’t miss it.”

 

He leaves, and a gentle sigh of relief comes to life. 

 

But now we must pause the story and follow the path of our gorgeous young friend.  Using the briefest of moments available, she crosses the street and intrudes upon her neighbors.  Perhaps they are annoyed at having their dinner interrupted.  Steak for Charles, seared tuna for Debbie.  I admit, I would be annoyed.  At least a little frustrated.  You’ve gotta eat that stuff when it’s hot.

 

At the door she asks, rather timidly, “Um, I think maybe we better call the cops?  The guy is right there.”

 

Without the slightest hesitation, Charles jumps up, catches a glimpse of the man standing across the street, and picks up the phone.  911 was never a longer number.  Debbie, realizing the seriousness of her husband’s actions, comes to life.  “Babe, we better get out the shotgun.”

 

Cut back to the excitement outside.  The three figures left standing alone can only stare at each other with the occasional smattering of nervous laughter.  “Ohmygosh, do you think that was really him?”  “Crazy.”  “This is crazy.”

 

Suddenly, a police cruiser appears.  Seeming unsure of whether to approach the house from which the call was placed, or the people standing right in front of him, he pauses.  Our hero approaches.

 

“Where did he go?”

 

“Uh – I’m not sure if he’s the one you are looking for.  Black guy – holding a white shirt – I told him to go to the bus stop right there on Airport.”

 

“Black guy – white shirt, black shorts?”

 

“Jean shorts, actually.  Yeah, white shirt – he was holding it.  Wearing a wife beater.”

 

The cruiser abruptly leaves, heading toward Airport.

 

The seconds whirl by.  More police cruisers arrive, but do not stop.  As though part of a carefully orchestrated ballet, choreographed by an infantile madman, they dance through the neighborhood unsure of where to go.  Clearly they do not visit the Harmon Triangle often.

 

Our heroine returns, accompanied by Charles & Debbie.  Six friends stand in the street, trying to guess what will happen next.  They could never imagine.

 

As though guided by an unseen conductor, led by a silent voice, the cruisers disappear together.  Everything is quiet.  Skin tingles and hair stands on end.  Goosebumps crawl across exposed limbs.  No one says a word.

 

A car approaches.  Blue, a Chevy or Dodge – early eighties – four door sedan – very boxy.  A black man is driving.  Kids fill the back seat.  He is driving so slow…..

 

He passes the heroes’ home.  He is looking for someone.  He is driving so slow….

 

As the car ambles down the street, eyes follow him.  He approaches Airport.

 

Suddenly a figure appears, running.  The stranger has revealed himself at last.  The timing is impeccable – a cruiser turns onto 50^th from Airport.  Momentum ruins what would be a picture-perfect view:  three parties converging at the same spot – all with different fears – all with different hopes.

 

The cruiser continues his course, turning on his lights with a flash, slamming the gas and directing his path to the blue sedan.

 

The stranger changes his course, avoiding the marked car he heads North with hopes the homes located there will provide the necessary cover.

 

The blue sedan suddenly stops, and is more suddenly forgotten as the officer formerly driving the cruiser jumps out and chases the stranger on foot.

 

From behind our friends more police arrive.  They seem to have little regard for pedestrians and everyone moves to the curb for safety.  A red hatchback narrowly avoids a collision – the driver pulls over and stops.  He doesn’t move for quite awhile – frozen in his automobile.

 

The men of our party attempt to be of use, pointing the way for police late on the scene, shouting “He went that way!” for anyone nearby.  Cruisers fly past – some heading the wrong way.  “No!  That way!”  Hands point, arms wave, voices rise.

 

“What just happened?”

 

Our heroes turn at the voice of the man in the little red hatchback.  His eyes are huge, his hands frozen to the steering wheel.  He is brought up to date on the current events, and reassured that the officers are in pursuit of a suspect on foot, not himself.  Such a gathering would have been difficult to organize even if they had known the friendly driver was holding an open container in his car.  Seriously, I know this is Texas, but c’mon.

 

“We all should go inside” Debbie declares.  Only our heroine hears – and agrees.  The two ladies retreat to their homes, leaving Heather to stand by her man.

 

The chase continues.  The stranger returns to the street, heading south, back into the row of houses from which he first arrived.  Our hero walks to the alley behind his home, his fortress.  He sees a lone officer walking towards him, still at a distance.  But the officer is not searching the alley – his focus rests on the properties adjacent.  The properties including our hero’s.

Suddenly a noise is heard.  Banging.  Imagine for a moment the sound of someone breaking into your home.  Most likely you don’t know what it is supposed to sound like.  But you can imagine.

 

So can our hero.  His first thought is “OhmyGod, where is she?”  He runs to change his view: blocked by the garage he cannot see the rear door to his home, his fortress.  He’s looking for his wife…

Before he can register any sense of relief, any hope of normalcy, the stranger is seen.  In our hero’s yard.  Running.

 

The rear door to the home is closed – the noise created by the runner climbing a wood fence. Jake & Heather stand motionless by the tree at the curb.  Charles remains across the street, in front of his garage.  Our hero stops in his tracks, watching.

 

The stranger jogs out of the yard, across the street, just past Charles and into the adjacent alley.  Let us describe this again, in detailed sequence.  The stranger jogs.  Jogs.  No running, no sprinting, his strength so clearly expended.  Heads turn to follow his progress.  Heather hides behind Jake, clinging to his shirt.  Charles spreads his palms, showing the stranger he has nothing to hide, nothing to impede his escape with.  And possibly showing him he has nothing to gain, no hope in his attempts for freedom?

 

An officer appears on foot.  Perhaps having followed the stranger over the fence, but the details are a little unclear.  And most likely we will never know – the police like to keep their secrets.  He follows the path of the accused, but stumbles down the curb to the street.  The stumble becomes a fall.  The fall becomes pain.

Lest the reader forget, there are police about.  Police in cruisers.  Police in cruisers driving around.  Police in cruisers driving around really, really fast.

 

To be specific, there is a cruiser driving really fast heading directly toward the fallen officer.  Brakes are applied, tires lock, rubber melts.  Heather turns her head away. Somehow friction overcomes, and our friends are spared the vision of carnage.  The fallen officer rises.  He continues his pursuit.

 

Quite often you will read that moments such as this take place in some kind of slow motion for the participating observer.  Understand this is not one of those moments.  The stranger, the police, everyone involved in the pursuit and doing so on foot – they all jog.  They jog. In real time, all of them run slow enough to confuse our hero:  “The dude is right there, why can’t they catch him?”

 

And somehow, from this moment, time speeds up.  Or seems to.  The pursuing officers, on foot and in cruisers, funnel into the alley at an alarming rate.  The dust settles.  Hearts begin beating once more.  Birds chirp.  Dogs bark, in the distance.

 

Our heroine emerges from her home, her fortress.  Breathing resumes.  Laughter appears, warmly welcomed. 

 

“Whoa.”

 

Our friends sit together.  Reminisce.  Offer theories, share memories, re-live the glory.  Ponder the fact that hardly any noise was made during the chase.  No yelling, aside from their own.  No sirens.  No horns.  Only engines revving, feet pounding the pavement, hearts beating. 

 

Police walk by. 

 

“What did he do?”  “Do you know what he did?”  “Why were you chasing him?”

 

They are lucky to receive even a glance in return.  Hardly a response.  Nothing verbal.

 

The police Chaplain arrives.  Why, no one will ever know for certain.  Count on it.  But he offers them the only clues they will keep.  Something mumbled about “a long list of them” in reference to crimes committed.  And a direct answer when asked what he did wrong:

 

“He ran.”

 

And so our story comes to a close.  The civil servants clean up any evidence of their presence.  The apprehended stranger is taken away in a cruiser.  More mango margaritas are poured. 

 

Darkness settles.  The hope of finishing the yardwork is relinquished.  Our heroes retreat within their home, their fortress.