When Lightning Strikes
We were driving in the Expedition—just back from the shop after a botched attempt to hotrod it rendered it useless—from an equally unsuccessful evening of croaker fishing. Dropped the rods in the water and caught a whole lotta nothing. The waters were too choppy still from the ferocious storm the night before.
The city itself was still recuperating from the house-rocking thunder, deadly lightning and winds. Off of New York Avenue, streets were fairly empty and quiet. As Dad, David, and I approach South Dakota Avenue from 18th, we were struck by how dark these neighborhoods were still, a full night after the storm. Downed trees lay like helpless victims, weak and humiliated in front of their stronger peers who withstood the rain and wind. Caution tape surrounded the neatly stacked logs work crews sawed earlier in the day.
“I’m surprised there aren’t police in this neighborhood," Dvid said. We were passing the McDonald’s on South Dakota. The traffic signals were the only lights in all directions. Every house sat dark, and their vulnerability was magnified. A lone cruiser appeared briefly, and turned behind us.
Right there, he explained, this guy I knew was rolled on by two guys in a car. They shot him, and stole his tennis shoes. Right there. This was around twilight like six or seven o’clock in the evening. Curiosity still lingered in his voice years later.
Just beyond, a mammoth tree lay helplessly upended, branches and leaves still attached. Fairly normal with the gross exception that it was in the fatal position of being parallel to the ground.
“These other guys I knew,” David said, “were chased by some guys in a car. The dudes in the car crashed into that tree, then got out on foot and shot him.” At the red light, I glanced at Lamond-Riggs library, where Mom took us to stock up on books in bulk like we were preparing for three months of house arrest. In this light, the trees wore a benign expression, as if their participation in anything nefarious was simply a lie. “Who, us?” they mocked.
“Damn,” I said. “Some people put themselves in it.”
“And some people get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.” We turned off of Missouri Avenue. “Like my friend who was visiting this girl at an apartment complex in Southeast. He was there by himself, and this dude high on PCP tried to stab him. Right there in the apartment.”
“Just for nothing?”
“Yeah, he was high. My friend got away, but then some of the dude’s friends got him in the courtyard. He ran to this lady's yard, jumped the fence, and luckily she let him in and called the police. Me and John visited him the next day at the hospital.”
We wait at the stop sign before turning a slight right onto Blair Road. “I’m amazed I made it through school without getting caught up in it, and just knowing the guys, or the friends of guys who were shot or stabbed, or whatever.”
Well, they say that it takes one influential adult in a kid’s life to make a difference. And you had plenty. Like a hundred. You’re so about to run that yellow light.
“Yeah, I guess. But…”
“I’m so happy, too, that I made it through school without getting jumped, or shot, or shaken down for anything I had. I would not want to be 17 again.” One Christmas my father gave me a Discman—this was when they were first hot—and he told me to be careful taking it to school. On the bus, I used to hide it in my book bag, and wear a hat over the headphones.
On our street, trees stand as they ought to. They had the temerity to remain erect. Maybe it was luck. Maybe they were strong. Maybe it was…whatever we want it to be. The porch light illuminates Mom’s anticipation that we would be home soon.
The city itself was still recuperating from the house-rocking thunder, deadly lightning and winds. Off of New York Avenue, streets were fairly empty and quiet. As Dad, David, and I approach South Dakota Avenue from 18th, we were struck by how dark these neighborhoods were still, a full night after the storm. Downed trees lay like helpless victims, weak and humiliated in front of their stronger peers who withstood the rain and wind. Caution tape surrounded the neatly stacked logs work crews sawed earlier in the day.
“I’m surprised there aren’t police in this neighborhood," Dvid said. We were passing the McDonald’s on South Dakota. The traffic signals were the only lights in all directions. Every house sat dark, and their vulnerability was magnified. A lone cruiser appeared briefly, and turned behind us.
Right there, he explained, this guy I knew was rolled on by two guys in a car. They shot him, and stole his tennis shoes. Right there. This was around twilight like six or seven o’clock in the evening. Curiosity still lingered in his voice years later.
Just beyond, a mammoth tree lay helplessly upended, branches and leaves still attached. Fairly normal with the gross exception that it was in the fatal position of being parallel to the ground.
“These other guys I knew,” David said, “were chased by some guys in a car. The dudes in the car crashed into that tree, then got out on foot and shot him.” At the red light, I glanced at Lamond-Riggs library, where Mom took us to stock up on books in bulk like we were preparing for three months of house arrest. In this light, the trees wore a benign expression, as if their participation in anything nefarious was simply a lie. “Who, us?” they mocked.
“Damn,” I said. “Some people put themselves in it.”
“And some people get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.” We turned off of Missouri Avenue. “Like my friend who was visiting this girl at an apartment complex in Southeast. He was there by himself, and this dude high on PCP tried to stab him. Right there in the apartment.”
“Just for nothing?”
“Yeah, he was high. My friend got away, but then some of the dude’s friends got him in the courtyard. He ran to this lady's yard, jumped the fence, and luckily she let him in and called the police. Me and John visited him the next day at the hospital.”
We wait at the stop sign before turning a slight right onto Blair Road. “I’m amazed I made it through school without getting caught up in it, and just knowing the guys, or the friends of guys who were shot or stabbed, or whatever.”
Well, they say that it takes one influential adult in a kid’s life to make a difference. And you had plenty. Like a hundred. You’re so about to run that yellow light.
“Yeah, I guess. But…”
“I’m so happy, too, that I made it through school without getting jumped, or shot, or shaken down for anything I had. I would not want to be 17 again.” One Christmas my father gave me a Discman—this was when they were first hot—and he told me to be careful taking it to school. On the bus, I used to hide it in my book bag, and wear a hat over the headphones.
On our street, trees stand as they ought to. They had the temerity to remain erect. Maybe it was luck. Maybe they were strong. Maybe it was…whatever we want it to be. The porch light illuminates Mom’s anticipation that we would be home soon.
posted by Rhonda Henderson at 10:51 AM
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