A Tosa resident since 1991, Christine walks the dog, raises kids, cooks but avoids housework, writes and reads, and works too much. A Quaker and
, she has been known to stand on both sides of the political and philosophic fence at the same time, which is very uncomfortable when you think about it. She writes about pretty much whatever stops in to visit her busy mind at the moment. One reader described her as "incredibly opinionated but not judgmental." That sounds like a good thing to strive for!
At around 9 am yesterday, I learned how to be afraid, something I’d nearly forgotten.
The lot behind my Walker's Point office was full, so I parked across the street behind the oldest Il Mito that’s about to become the newest Il Mito. At the sidewalk I ran into a man whose mouth and nose were streaming blood and whose shirt was blood-spattered.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said. Clearly, he was not, but he kept walking and so did I. Then he circled back toward me.
“Can I call someone for you?" I asked.
He shook his head no. “Is there someplace in there I can wash up?”
By this point my rusty street smarts ground into gear. “There’s a filling station two buildings down,” I said. “I’m sure the guy there. . .”
His eyes darted and then he sprinted toward The Timbers building. I turned around to see what he’d seen—two carloads of gang members being discharged 20 feet away. In an instant they surrounded me. There was no place to go: I was backed up against a wall.
But then they spotted their prey and most took off in pursuit. A couple hovered around me for a few seconds and then followed the rest.
I yelled to a man in the lower parking lot to call 911. But I guess he was scared, too, and he just left. Then a woman I hadn’t seen, parking behind me just before all the action started, rolled down her window and handed me her phone. “I’ve dialed 911: you talk to the dispatcher. And get in the car!”
I did and had a too long discussion with the dispatcher. Mostly she asked who I was. Finally she said, “do you need an ambulance?”
“No, but if you don’t send someone soon I will!”
She transferred me to the police, and I repeated the story.
The beaten man had run into a locked stairway. Trapped, he was beaten some more. Some men from one of the offices, buff guys in expensive clothes with the look of ex-marines, chased the gang members out and got the license number of one of the cars. Then the bloodied guy left, too.
It took 10 more minutes for the police to arrive. They were only blocks away when the call went out, talking to people who'd seen the original fight. In Tosa, I'm pretty certain they'd have responded first and returned later to question.
We all identified the beaten man as Latino, but when the police asked the race of the attackers, I was stymied. Their skin was dark, but were they African Americans or Cubans, Puerto Ricans, or some combination? I’m not that good at race identification in an increasingly mixed race world. And when you’re in the midst of 6-8 threatening men, the details flee.
The whole thing was shocking because unwritten territorial rules were violated. The gangs don’t bother the office buildings, especially during the day. They let us middle class working folks bask in the illusion of safety gentrification creates. This doesn't happen to us.
I couldn’t take my usual walk across the 6th Street Viaduct that afternoon. Didn't get much work done, either.
This morning I learned that I had starred in a security tape of the event. I also realized that two of us, the witness and the prey, were alive because that morning, no one had a gun. If they’d had one they’d have used it.
Instead of a modern tragedy, we had an old-fashioned broken nose, broken teeth, and a lost sense of freedom. But no one died.
Because bullets kill people more easily than fists do, and they come from guns, and people aim them and pull the triggers.
