The Cost Of Curiosity
A trio of shots rang out yesterday, while I was patio-lounging with iced-tea, outside my favourite Starbucks.
I turned around to face where the bangs birthed.
The huge hunting and fishing store across the parking lot, was now lit with lights — flashing a furious red.
An eerie feeling hung heavier in the air than the forest fire’s fog that found our valley this week.
I began walking towards the parking-lot-muffled shouting, while people broke into fleeing-Friday-sprint-sessions they weren’t dressed for.
Trying to cast glimpses over cars, I weavingly picked up my pace — to witness the wonder, and possibly the wounds.
I wanted to help, but then remembered I had no weapon, other than my tightly gripped tea.
I crouched, rounding the last car, and came upon a very shaken and pepper-sprayed, gun-cleaving female police officer, a homeless-looking 20-something-year-old male — lying face down, and two other people I recognized.
The two I knew, were standing beside the clearly-shaken cop, whose drawn gun (I assumed) had barreled the burst.
The floored-male — knife-grasping, was ineffective in his attempts to slice the officer. But he tried — pavement-prone, nonetheless.
I approached the squinting cop, whose gasping almost rivalled deliveries I’ve witnessed.
She was in another zone — another reality. Training had taken over. And though she was clearly shaken harder than a snowglobe at Christmas, she handled herself well — waiting for backup.
Screeching in, the brawlers came, looking to defend their distressed damsel — their almost-downed deputy.
I have never seen that many cops untether their tempers, and unholster their muzzles, all at once.
I was glad I was on this side of their sights.
They shot him a few times with rubber bullets, until he finally surrendered the knife.
I still wished there was more action though.
I should have ran faster, to witness why one of the two people’s faces I knew was bashed and bloodied — along with an elbow injury he’ll have ‘till Hanukkah.
We were all very sternly told to back up, and get into the non-vegan-friendly store — where we were temporarily locked in.
Containing a crime scene is extremely important — I finally reasoned, after spending 15 minutes pissed that I couldn’t just leave when I wanted.
With iced tea now warmed to cup-side-sweating tea, it dawned on me that I might have gotten myself into a situation I can’t just walk from.
At least I had the tasty tea.
2 plus hours later, I was giving my statement to the police.
I was much calmer by then, after observing the detailed protocols they follow — ensuring that what is right is rightly written.
Those two hours with guns and bullets, and bows and arrows, afforded me more than just victim-viewing pleasure.
It gave me an opportunity to turn my attention to my tendency to run towards things others run from.
I see this theme throughout my life — playing out in both good and bad ways.
I was the one to touch things labelled hot, to take things labelled anothers’, and to test things labelled don’t.
Part of it is selfish, I am certain. But part of it is also curiosity — wanting to witness what will happen.
This time it cost a couple of hours, and led to slightly less, cortisol-filled sleep.
The benefit was a firsthand account of what happens to those who pepper-spray cops, carry weapons, and try to rob retailers.
I am thankful for the officers who show up (for better or worse), and handle the hard, the hateful, and the horrible.
I have more respect for them today.
For though boyishly-brazen — some may be, they are extremely needed!
In similar fashion to my iced tea.
For, though warmed and ice-less, it still more than satisfied my stay — a savior, shielding the struggle.
