Blue
He woke before dawn and
found her silhouetted in orange, holding the sun behind her back like a kid
playing keepaway. He knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep, so he headed for
the bathroom and discovered another of the apartment’s hidden treasures: a
toilet-flush that could suck down an Orca.
He decided the immediate thing to do was walk down to the
terrarium, order a bagel and coffee, and scan the help-wanted ads. But he never
got past the headlines.
The victim was thirty years old. He was a local kid, went
to Stadium High. He had come back to help his mother, who was laid up with a
shattered ankle.
It was late at night. The man was walking home from a
party, a few miles north of Shawn’s apartment. Two black kids asked him for a
cigarette. When he reached into his pocket to get one, he was struck down from
behind. A group of eight kids, aged 11 to 19, beat him to a pulp. One of them
had a croquet mallet. After the victim lost consciousness, the 19-year-old
performed wrestling-style drops, driving his knee into the man’s skull. He did
this more than two dozen times, counting them off as he went.
After six days in a coma, the man passed away the
previous afternoon. The police described it as a “thrill killing,” and
concluded that the suspects did it largely because they were bored.
Welcome to Tacoma,
Shawn. Try not to get killed by the animals.
The city was holding a community forum that night at
Stadium High. Shawn decided he had to go.
When he arrived at the school, about a mile from his
apartment, he found a kind of castle, peppered with spires. He composed several
histories in his head, but figured he would learn the real one soon. He crossed
a courtyard spotted with squares of frosted glass, lit from underneath, and
filed into the gym.
He sat in the back row, feeling his newcomer status. It
wasn’t long before the 20 rows in front of him had filled up. Dozens of
latecomers were forced to stand in the back. One was an elderly woman, standing
to Shawn’s right, one hand on the folded-up bleachers.
She had wispy silver hair and rather astonishing blue
eyes, and looked unsteady, shifting from one foot to the other. Shawn touched
the woman’s arm and asked her if she would take his seat.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “I think that’s why I
don’t go to art museums anymore – I literally can’t stand them! Hah-hah!”
Her laughter, a two-beat hiccup, made a surprising
contrast with the general mood. Shawn recalled his uncle’s funeral, where his
uncle’s best friend finished his eulogy by telling all of their favorite jokes.
The mayor gave a brief talk and introduced a young woman,
a close friend of the victim. The news reports had hinted at the young man’s
character, but this first testimony expanded it profoundly.
“I feel most sorry for the world,” she concluded, wiping
away tears. “Because the world… has lost the kindest… most gentle human being I
have ever known.”
Many of the speakers ran along those lines. Some
complained about the police, who had recorded a series of similar attacks but
failed to report them to the affected neighborhoods. Others lamented the
violent state of society at large, and a deteriorating sense of community.
At the end of two hours, Shawn didn’t feel any better
about the killing, but he did feel better about his neighbors. He stood outside
the entrance, watching the stream of faces. One of them was the old lady, who
was now making her way toward him. She walked slowly, so Shawn had time to
imagine her first words.
Thanks so much for
offering me your seat.
Such a shame, isn’t
it?
Were you a friend of
his?
She arrived a few
seconds later, and put a hand on Shawn’s elbow.
“Do you paint?”
Photo by MJV
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