someone is going to get shot tonight

I'm writing this to publish a few days from now, so that the situation can calm itself and also to have a record in case--of what, I don't know.

I'm feeling many conflicting emotions. Fear, anger, determination, exhaustion. More familiar to people of color, I think, and not so much me as a privileged white person.

Anyway.

*

I spent Saturday writing and headed home around 5pm to drop off some groceries. I'd called the liquor store about picking up boxes and they'd closed early Friday due to the unrest but the owner said to come by Saturday. I dropped off my groceries and headed right back out.

There was a person on the front sidewalk shooting a roman candle out of a bottle. Ill advised on a number of levels, but they were having a great time. They were also not white, and I was damned if I was going to call the cops on a person of color. So I just said Dude what the fuck and walked to the liquor store.

At the corner I heard what must have been a string of black cats. Blam blam blam. In this neighborhood, at this time, again, ill-advised.

The liquor store owner stood outside with a male companion. I know her a little bit so I stopped to say hi. She was staring down the block. My nerves do not need this, she said.

I know, I said. They're in front of my building.

She told me to go on in and get boxes, so I did.

When I got back to my building, the fireworks person was coming back out, holding up a mortar and a cluster of fireworks--M80's.

Christ. It was going to be one of those nights. I went upstairs and dropped off the boxes, and put away my groceries. I had one more errand and needed to kill 10 minutes or so. I chopped berries, and heard the mortars.

*

Grabbing my keys, I headed out. At the front door I could see the fireworks person and a bunch of other figures, all male, I think, yelling and shoving. There was blood. An SUV had pulled up onto the sidewalk, doors hanging open. Another car--a sports car maybe?--also doors open, was in the loading zone beside the building.

The fireworks person was on the curb. People were trying to punch, trying to push, several videoing with their phones. One guy saw me and somehow they all shifted to the right, towards the milk tea place.

I didn't feel panic so much as What the fuck, and an urgent need to get away from the situation. I walked into the parking lot where the USPS truck was trying to pull out and beat a retreat. A youngish white guy stood there too and we watched the melee--more hitting and shoving. I could see a CHOP medic and others who looked like they were trying to deescalate, but there was a lot of blood and I think some broken glass.

I walked north and then took a left to cut through the park. I called my property manager. No answer. I texted him. I called the new property manager and got a phone tree. Fuck.

My pizza was ready so I got it and walked the long way, up Pine, through the barricades. There was a meeting on the Cal Anderson ballfield so I listened for a few minutes, to the strategizing about what may be coming tomorrow.

Barricades being removed? Yes/No?

Military coming in? Oh, no.

A guy tried to chat me up and asked me on a date, so I headed up towards 12th.

A tall, slender man I've seen many days was hollering at a young kid who was in the alcove or garage opening of the East Precinct. Get out of there, he yelled. I been telling you. We're under surveillance. It's not safe. The kid waved him off but did leave the alcove.

As I walked, the building manager texted they were aware of the situation and monitoring it. Whatever the fuck that meant.

*

The liquor store owner was outside her store, having pulled the metal grates across the doors, but still open. I stopped. We traded looks. Someone is gonna get shot tonight, she said.

I told her about seeing my neighbor being beaten.

She said whoever had beat them up had run past her, yelling that the fireworks person was a boogaloo or Proud Boy.

No way, I said. The person lives in my building. They're not a Proud Boy or boogaloo.

It's a bad time to wear Hawaiian shirts, she said laconically. You better get security on your building. You might be targeted.

*

I walked back to my building. The random cars were gone. The fireworks person was being tended to by CHOP medics, who were handing them gauze, water, calming them. There was blood everywhere, big red wet drops on the sidewalk, the entry way, the curb, a parked SUV.

Where are my keys, the fireworks person said, seeming dazed. Their face and arm were bloody, as were their clothes. I helped a medic look and finally I saw the key, shining and bloody, on the sidewalk. I pointed it out.

I let the person into the building so as to prevent any more blood from being transferred. I nodded to the medic, who stood out on the sidewalk, and he nodded back.

*

Upstairs, I thought about what to do. Calling the cops was a non-starter. But I was angry about my building manager acting like it was no big deal.

I texted him and asked him to speak with me. He said he needed an hour. I replied, there is blood all over the entry way and sidewalk. Dude. He replied asap--he would get it cleaned up immediately.

We need security, I texted. No reply.
So, I called the emergency number for the property manager.

The property manager's first instinct was to tell me to call 911 -- and I laughed. They won't come, I said. And I won't call them on a person of color.

The fire department will come, he said, and I laughed again.

Nope. They wouldn't come for the attempted arson 2 weeks ago at Car Tender. No one is coming. I tried to impress this on him. I support BLM 100%. I want the protests to effect change. I also don't think anyone deserves to get beaten up on their front doorstep.

He said he agreed.

*

Am I a Karen? I fucking hope not.

I did not reveal the fireworks person's name or unit number. I checked on them after I called, and gave them the property manager's personal cell phone in case they need medical attention.They seemed sheepish and said they'd been day drinking and probably deserved it.

To which I said, No one deserves to get the shit beat out of them on their own front step.

Well, they said, with a sheepish half-smile. I don't think I got the shit beat out of me.

*

Postscript: the continuing tension has brought me closer to my neighborhood, in a way. I care so much about what happens and to whom. I don't like getting pushed around by anyone. I have a little text chain with someone on a lower floor and someone next door, and we keep each other updated. Everyone is worried. And, determined.