Shots Fired: Wild, Wild West? or just some street corner in DC?

So – we were at a meeting yesterday afternoon in the Wells Fargo conference room on 12th and Pope, just across from Gough (pronounced Goff (I think)) Park. The two of us are half of the Publicity and Marketing Committee for the local Habitat for Humanity and we were meeting with the other half discussing the 20th anniversary for our Habitat and a wine-tasting fundraiser and…well, you don’t really care about that, given the title of this story. To get right to the good stuff…

I looked out the window of the conference room in time to see a big SUV swerve around the corner, followed by two police cars with lights flashing that marshaled it to the curb, at which point one cop jumped out of each car, staying behind the doors, drawing weapons, bracing on the tops of the car doors and holding, while another officer not in uniform popped into view, also with gun drawn, resulting in pairs of hands and arms suddenly poking out of the windows of the SUV, and with great difficulty I pulled my eyeballs back into my head, realized the other 3 were staring at me and said – “I think there’s something happening out there.” Or words to that effect.

We gathered around the windows of the conference room and watched while an individual got out of the drivers position of the SUV, keeping hands and arms out in view, faced away from the police, backed up several paces, until the plain clothes guy had her kneel and put her hands behind her; he cuffed her, stood her up and moved her to one of the marked cars, and put her in the back. Well. All of this was enough for our colleagues in the room to start joking about Police 1 or some cop show that Nick and I aren’t privy to. We also started looking around the gathering crowd to see if anyone was taking video and sure enough, there was a guy on the corner who had gotten off his bike, pulled out his cell phone and started shooting – video, that is. He was disappointed. The plain clothed officer was courteous and efficient – as courteous as you can be when you snapping hand-cuffs on someone’s wrists and ducking them into the backseat of the car.

The get-out-of-the-car-with-your-hands-in-the-air was repeated 4 more times. One dude, though, couldn’t quite leave his persona in the car – backing down the street with his arms in the air, but still dipping and bouncing (you know the gait) and holding his fingers in a gang sign.

We couldn’t wait for this morning’s newspaper. And of course, there were pictures on the front page under the headline, “Shots Fired.” Now, we didn’t hear any shots fired, but there was speculation that it might be gangsters. I guess they are the new “Wild Wild West.” The guys with the cowboy hats have been displaced. Now, it’s droopy jeans, backwards caps and attitudes. We thought we left that behind.

On a much calmer note, I had an interesting experience one night last week sitting on the back deck. The moon was a day short of full, and was rising opposite the setting sun – a ghost moon. I was looking in the right direction at the right time and caught it just as the top curvature of the moon was about even with the tips of the trees. I had a hard candy in my mouth; that becomes important in a moment. I watched the moon with the idle curiosity in mind whether I’d be able to see it progress. I watched the steady movement of the moon, lifting itself from behind the trees, to rest full and bright on the tips of the trees and then slip up into the empty sky. In about 5 minutes – or less time than it took me to dissolve my piece of hard candy, I could literally see the moon move. The movement was so distinct, I experienced rather a bit of vertigo. Mostly because I got to thinking that it wasn’t so much the movement of the moon, as the movement of the earth. Where I was sitting was spinning away fast enough that I could track the moon’s movement in finite increments, measured by tree branches. I stayed focused long enough for the moon to rise clear of any framing. And it was especially interesting that once the moon was up where there was no measuring frame, just space, it didn’t seem to move nearly as fast.

A small but touching thing: when we walked up Cherry Creek Rd last Sunday, nearing the top, we came upon a hand-made wooden cross. Made of small slats, but carefully put together; not painted. Handwritten on the cross-wise arm was Branden L. Whitworth. No date. Wood was weathered. Writing a little faded. When you see these crosses on the side of the highway, surrounded by flowers, balloons, whatever, you have a good idea what happened. But on this barely-a-road – it’s really more of a track – that not quite passable for anything except a 4-wheel drive with high clearance, we wondered how Branden came to be commemorated there. I didn’t notice it on the way up, but coming back down, and pausing again to wonder, I noticed a single, faded can of Lone Star Beer at the foot of the cross. Branded was cared for and about. And it reminded me….

Have you even been to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington DC? Sonnie