Late tonight, or early this morning, there was a racket outside my door; rap, rap, rapping outside my chamber door. Two men, arguing at first over respect, or mutal fear, or hyperbole, began to show signs of desperation. Sensing this, or maybe just fearing it, I took the time to pull on some pants, as I didn't want to call the authorities, only to stand in the street later in my skivvies recounting the details of the fracus to investigators.
A third man, perhaps worried that the noise caused by the first two might attract unwanted attention to the situation, decided that swift, steadfast, violent action was the only calming recourse available to him at the moment. He tackled the first man in a very manly way, bent his ear to his victim and uttered what can only be assumed was some sort of threat.
The second man, the one who wasn't tackled, took the opportunity to repeatedly kick the prostrate body of the first. This was my second clue that things were quickly spinning out of control. I dialed 9-1-1, and was connected to the Englewood Police.
Immediately, I recounted my version of the ongoing event to the operator, who then asked what race the three men were (black, white, hispanic,
aluetian, samoan, polynesian, aboriginal). How the fuck would I know? It was dark, they were fighting near one of those mercury-halogen streetlights that makes everyone look like the flesh on their skulls is dying and they're slowly transforming into orange zombies. I think I said some were dark-skinned, and for all I know, they could've been Italians.
The cops shortly came, but not before I poked my head out the front door and yelled at the little Vin Diesels.
"Hey!"
I can't remember what they did, one might have non-verbally challenged me. It was hard to tell.
"The cops are on their way!"
I know at least one of them heard that. He looked up and seemed to acknowledge what I said. But by then, the fuzz was rolling. Five of them appeared -- maybe more -- lights a-spinnin' and a-blazin', but no sirens thankfully. Wouldn't want to wake any of the neighbors who should have already been awake with all the goddamned noise. More on that later.
Timidly, yet with conviction, I stepped out on the porch. One officer strolled up and pulled a notepad from his breast pocket. "You the one who called?"
I nodded, and felt a sudden, puzzling urge to cry right there on the porch. It occurred to me at that moment that I was fucking scared of these three ne'er-do-wells and their rambunctious behavior. I think I still am.
Yes, I told him, I called 9-1-1.
"What happened?"
"Two guys were fighting, then a third one came and jumped one, wait, the two guys were
arguing, not fighting, and the third one came in and jumped the second guy, then the first guy started kicking him on the ground. Right there, in that yard across the street. Those three guys... there's one in a gray shirt, and another in a gray shirt, and one in a..."
I was babbling. Fucking terrified. They're Chicago thugs, probably south-side, or east-side, or south-central, or wherever the fucking thugs come from in that damned city. I remember one of them saying something to that effect: This ain't Chicago, bro! THUMP, right to the ribs!
Like that seemed to matter. Are Chicago cops slow or something? Overloaded with work? Are they selective? Or do they only respond to crimes reported by criminals? I didn't know. I have never tangled with the Chicago PD, nor have I relied on their services. But this I know: here in Denver (or Englewood), when a guy calls the cops on a fight, the smackdown is imminent.
The officer then asked if I wanted to use my name "on the report."
I said I only wanted to call the incident in, because it seemed pretty violent. Like maybe someone could get hurt.
The officer replaced the notebook in his breast pocket. Told me he understood, that a lot of people didn't want to give their names for fear of retribution, that he wouldn't ask any more questions. And he didn't. He walked back to the ruckus and dissappeared amid the activity and flashing lights. I didn't get his name. I didn't think to look.
That's when I noticed that not a single neighbor had even poked a head out their window. Not even the young couple who owned the yard where the fight took place. They have an infant to care for, and they didn't bother to even call. And the tough Irish guy next to them -- the one with the big, tough Irish son who's always talking in grandiloquent roughhouse-style and who seems invincible -- even he stayed in the house. The argument and fight took place within 30 feet of his bedroom. My neighbors to the north: nothing. To the south: nothing. Two houses south, where all the police cars converged with their lights and screeching radios: nothing. There are fucking
children living around here, neighbors! Maybe just one of you proud parents could show some balls for your kids?
The officer left me with the uneasy feeling that I really screwed the cops that night. That the only way these guys were going to jail -- and not back to their rooms a half-a-block away, all coked, boozed or methed up, after I publicly challenged them and stood like a preacher on my porch as the cops ran criminal histories and otherwise had their way with them -- was if I answered Mr. Officer's questions correctly. And I didn't.
Not to worry. Surely, I thought, the cops will be cleaning the whole mess up and shipping these young toughs to the hooscow tonight to ponder their errant ways. But I was wrong. The thugs might have even cheered as the squad of officers released them back to the streets. Right there, across from my house, where A., my dog and our new kitten were sleeping. To the thugs' credit, they haven't fire-bombed my house or hassled me in any other way, at least not yet.
To the officer:
What am I, a fucking lawyer? Do you think we all know criminal law from memory? When, exactly, did you learn the law? At crime school, in Fighting Johnny Law 101? Did I really fuck this up, or did you simply avoid some paperwork tonight? I don't know, officer, because I am not a fucking
cop!
Do you know how to spell or avoid double negatives? Do you know the weight of any lag bolt between three and five inches long? Do you know which wire to connect to ground on slave dimmer for a living room ceiling fan? Do you know which over-the-counter children's medicines are toxic when mixed?
Should I have known something that I didn't, and should I have challenged you about it? Should I have said, "officer, I'm sure you know your job, but are you saying that by not giving my name, all the information I provided was useless? Isn't fighting assault? I told you they were fighting, but none of them were arrested. Were they play-fighting? Was that one guy play-kicking the other one in the ribs while the third play-held him to the ground with a pretend headlock?
These questions of mine have no answer. But this one does:
Should I move to Chicago? I think maybe I should, because at least I know those three dudes aren't there now.
If this guy happens to be your attorney, you're in trouble. 
