Gunfire and Rain

We’re watching a movie gun battle when we hear the sound of actual gunfire: rapid shots, from the apartments north of us. I look in time to see four young men, perhaps Hispanic, speed past on foot, one south down the sidewalk, another across the street, two turning into our yard. A bay window on that side of our house provides shelter behind it. Phil orders me away from windows, but not before I hear an agonized exclamation from one of the young men.

Seeing the runners, I dial 911, listen to a recording asking me to wait for the operator, a message repeated in Spanish, then two languages I don’t know and I’ve heard the cry of that young man crouched behind our bay window, so I know he’s hurt. Finally, the calm, methodical 911 operator goes through her questions as she’s supposed to do and I’m thinking, he’s shot, do you hear me, so I repeat several times, “I think he’s been shot.”

Phil stays where he can see them, verifies there are two: white shirt, striped shirt, baseball caps, information I relay. The operator says they’ve had several calls and officers are en route and how many shots were there and do I want the police to contact me. I don’t know how many shots; they were fast and in the midst of Mexican movie shots. From his guard post, Phil announces that the two are leaving. Out front, we see flashing lights, patrol cars, an ambulance. The young men hurry to those lights. By the time we step outside, police have taped off the scene and EMTs are treating the one wounded.

When we moved to this city neighborhood in 1984, there was a turf war between Bloods and Crips and many such events, including one on our block. Then as now, the shooting happened in the apartments. Then as now, those who did the shooting and being shot were young Black or Hispanic males. Then, homeowners were mostly black. Now, thirty years later, mostly white folk tumble onto front yards. My neighbor who has a view of that side of my house says, “when they saw me looking at them, they said, ‘get away from the window: the guys with guns are still out there.’” Wounded and yet trying to warn someone else. “He bled all over your garden hose,” my neighbor adds.

The ambulance takes the young man away. He was shot in the arm. I mention the blood to a tall young cop, but perhaps it doesn’t matter, since they have the injured party? He takes a look, finds the shiny red rounds consistent with the wound he’s already seen, wanted to be sure there wasn’t another victim. “These guys aren’t gang-related,” he says. “They were just outside in time for the drive-by.” He asks me not to clean it up; they might want photos. The cop seems frazzled, says they had another shooting this morning and whatever beef these gangs have with each other right now, it doesn’t seem to be resolving.

We stay out a bit longer, learn our neighbor to the south is having trouble with her arthritis. Neighbors to the north were just finishing dinner, came out with wine glasses, introduce their guests. The young woman next door is freaked, won’t stay outside with us. She’s new. I want to tell her she’s white and has little to fear: living in the same neighborhood doesn’t mean living in the same world. Instead, I observe, “We haven’t had one of these for years. I thought we were done with them, what with gentrification and economic recovery.”

But think of Baltimore: for some there’s been no recovery, as a black professor from Johns Hopkins points out. “I have no problems with police,” he says, “but I’m not on those streets.” The most cursory search shows U. S. race riots erupt every few years. Violence gets media attention while the flames burn. When the smoke clears, we don’t fix what matters. In Denver a new generation of young men who see no hope of a better future have again joined gangs. They are again failing to learn what our entire species seems incapable of learning, that the revenge game, once begun, has no end.

We finish our fatalistic Mexican movie, “Colosio: The Assassination,” in which the truth seekers die and the bad guys get away with it. Except for a dog barking incessantly in someone’s backyard, the neighborhood is quiet, and soon after we go to bed the dog falls silent too. The next morning is overcast, and at breakfast we read the Sunday paper, which has nothing about our incident. A steady rain begins. Outside my bay window, dried blood is being washed away.