Blam blam blam blam blam blam blam blam!
Just like that. Pointed. Utterly emphatic.
“That was scary,” said Sean from his easy chair.
I was eating rice and beans, sunk deep in the ass-welt of my faux Eames, feet propped up on its spinny, matching ottoman.
“S’long as they’re not aiming at us.”
“Eight shots,” he declared. As though the number might mean something.
“Yeah?” I wasn’t sure he was right. The count seemed high. But he probably was. They did come in an awful hurry.
When witnesses hear shots, do they report more than occurred or fewer? I guess more, usually. What with people prone to exaggeration. But then you hear these crazy numbers, cop shot the suspect 68 times. Doesn’t seem possible but it is. We tend to think one’s enough. Except if you’re the shooter, I guess.
It wasn’t the first time we’d heard shots in our neighborhood. But still, this seemed particularly dark. Those were purposeful bangs. And no sporadic, extra ones after. There had to be a body at the other end of them. I lifted my wine glass to my lips. In my mind I saw the arm, the hand, the gun; the body falling and the killer run.
Sean had found a poem on the street and brought it home:
DON'T
WALK
WALK
It was the knockout screen from a crossing light. You know, the top two words light up and then the bottom one. But all at once, propped on the living room wall, the words together had a jarring effect. The instant contradiction was brutal, stark.
But at least it started with a negative and ended with a positive.
Made me think of the song:
Don’t you know that you can count me out, in