There's a stretch of urban road I drive on that is painfully slow. Every 100 feet a stoplight grinds traffic to a stop. Literally, you hear people slamming on their breaks or hear worn breaks scraping. You just don't expect to have to stop that often so when the green goes yellow and that damn yellow lasts two seconds, the result is lots of drivers stopping short.
I mentioned that this is a very urban area. If you live on this 4 mile stretch of road you have to sign a waiver. The waiver states you must ignore all rules of personal safety you've ever learned from your parents, school, friends, after-school TV specials. You are expected to randomly step off curbs and walk into traffic. You must cross at crosswalks just as the light turns green for the cars poised to run you down. And you are required to walk slowly. If you hurry along I'm sure they must run you out of the neighborhood.
All small children must be left to their own devices. Holding a toddlers hand while walking down the street or crossing is strictly forbidden. Men's pants must be worn prison-style – well below the buttock exposing underpants. Women are expected to wear only the tightest fitting clothing that still allows circulation of blood and respiration similar to that of a person climbing a high altitude peak. All persons not engaged with a Smartphone must leer menacingly at all passersby's in automobiles; unless, of course the passengers of the vehicle happen to be neighborhood denizens. If so, the vehicle is required to stop, the pedestrian must lean upon the car and "conversate" until the line of cars behind the hooptie become sufficiently frustrated.
So I'm navigating this street trying to remember all the rules when I see them. Two 20-something neighborhood toughs walking in the same direction I'm rolling. Covered in tattoos and scars, muscled and clad to impress, the men swagger in harmony. The gridlock allows me to observe them longer than would normally be possible. I sat in their blindspot, back and to the left.
Reactions from people of the street varied. Some dropped their eyes – usually elder people. They probably hoped not to be victimized. Women of similar age smiled or greeted them warmly – no fear. Women slightly older pretend not to see them or bring a hand to their mouth or eyes – terror? shame? Children waiting for the bus to school visibly moved closer together and their once geese-like chatter fades to whispers – respect or just scared?
It's obvious these men rule the street. Or maybe their organization does. Either way, they move unopposed. I wonder at the source of their power. Is it their potential to deal violence? Their reputation for having done so in the past? Are they unstable? Maybe they're not local toughs and are trespassing on another group's turf?
I get my answer soon enough. Our stop and go procession reaches a corner featuring a leaning telephone pole. Flowers, stuffed animals, candles and a portrait are arranged around the pole's cracked base. Shards of glass have collected on the asphalt, up against the curb.
The men drop to a knee beside the memorial, making the sign of the cross. Heads bowed, lips move in prayer. One man throws a supportive arm across the shoulders of the other. Eyes are closed tight. Shoulders rise and fall slightly. Sobbing.
My light is green but I don't move. No one beeps. Five seconds or so pass and I return to the present. I glide through the now-yellow light just in time roll up to the next red signal. I digest the transformation just witnessed. I think about the reactions of the people on the street again. Different perspective now. Can't forget that perspective thing.
