“There’s going to be a lot of people there,” Sara tried to reassure, “that’s the whole point. What can they do?” “They’re cops,” Jeremy said back with a laugh, “They can do what they want!” I listened to them argue and didn’t say much as they tried to second guess how the night would go. Riot squad or come what may, it was vowed we would not go quietly. I found the talk comforting. As complicated and confusing as the world can be, it’s nice to know sometimes who your enemy is. Given a physical presence to yell at and grapple with, at least everything can finally fit into place and make sense for a minute. We came around the highways into downtown and I lifted myself up to see out the window what an Ohioan big city looked like. It didn’t look much different than most from a window on the highway at night, a cluster of darkened skyscrapers, a vague orange glow of streetlights, and a deep purple night closing in everything around. It was claustrophobic to look at. We parked, made our way to the square and were greeted with a friendly atmosphere. The square itself wasn’t very big, a small block of mostly pavement and bricks with some benches and trees around the rim. The area was dimly lit and office towers loomed large around us on all sides pointing up into a small starless sky. There was a cocktail party buzz in the air. People stood around with tea, coffee, and soup like they were holding martinis and wine or taking bites of cheese. It was an eclectic mix. The homeless, mostly older men, seemed to be enjoying themselves in conversation with middle aged baby boomer activists and students. People slept on benches or put out blankets. Some crusty looking punks sat on the ground singing “Baby, I’m an Anarchist.” I left my guitar with Sara and went with Jeremy to get some soup. There was some talk of police threats and how to respond, battle plans tossed back and forth, but mostly everyone was relaxed and talking just to pass the time. There were two police cars parked along the street, but they were paying us as little attention as we payed them. People were playing cards and chess. I found myself in a conversation with a marine vet and a homeless man about the history of Johnny Appleseed. Apparently he was a tinker, and he gave out the apple seeds to housewives as a calling card so they’d remember him. I guess like most glorified legends of American history it was just another over hyped marketing scheme. I realized the intention was probably to stay through the night, and having nowhere else to be, I didn’t mind at all. “Do you want to play a song?” Sara asked eagerly when we met back up with our group. “I don’t know, I think they’ve got it covered,” I said nodding to the punks who were now singing along drunkenly to “Wagon Wheel.” I know this was the kind of gathering political songwriters are supposed to revel in, but all of the sudden I felt uncomfortable interjecting myself. Who cared what I had to say? I had a car to sleep in and a job to go back to if I ever so decided. I would rather have heard one of the homeless sing. “Do you want to play one? We can trade off,” I asked her trying to deflect the responsibility. “I’m not very good, but sure.” “Her name is Rosie,” I said handing her my guitar. “Hi Rosie! Nice to meet you. Ok,” she looked back at me “I don’t play for people much so bear with me.” She strummed quietly and sang with a pretty but shy voice that at times became inaudible. Her shyness was funny next to the near frantic enthusiasm she had when talking about the protest. She handed me the guitar without looking up when she was done. “I’m really not very good. You play one.” “I don’t know what to play, I haven’t written an Ohio song yet.” “You have to have an Ohio song!” A little mischief flashed across her eyes, “maybe you’ll write it tonight.” I grinned back and played something as cute, quiet, and ineffectual as I could. When I finished I looked around to see if there was anyone else who wanted to play until I got my bearings better or the cops came for the inevitable stand off and let me off the hook entirely.
As I looked up there was a sudden change in the air. It was like everyone knew right before it happened that this was about to spiral quickly away from the pleasant evening we’d been creating for ourselves. A muted tone crept into the conversation around us and there was a subtle shifting of people’s glances. I checked the streets to see if more cops had finally shown up. Instead I saw a bare chested man walking with his shoulders back and an air of authority into the center of the square. “You are all dirty worthless bums!” he shouted. He held his head high looking around at the protestors and homeless. His arms hung out at his sides and he looked like he was flexing. Everyone mostly fell silent as his eyes ran across them.”Your homelessness is your fault!” He raised his index finger sternly in the air in front of his face. “I,” he drew out the pronoun, “work! I own apartment buildings.” He gestured back at the skyscrapers lining the street he’d just come from. “You are all lazy! Looking for a handout!” He sounded like a drunk preacher. I might’ve been able to guess right then, but had it confirmed later that he was homeless and slept in the park most nights. I put my guitar back in its case. “I am an angel sent by god,” he continued in a booming voice, “to clean up this mess!” His head was shaved and his chest was smooth. He almost gleamed in the street lights. None of us said anything. I exchanged a look with Jeremy. Wherever this was going it didn’t look good. Sara was next to us with her usual excitable look now starting to mix with apprehension. The other three were sitting down trying to look away. “Do you hear me?!” he shouted at no one and everyone, stepping aggressively towards people. “I was sent on a mission! I’m going to clean this place up!” He looked ready to pick a fight, but no one was taking the bait. I looked to the street and saw the two police cars were gone. He walked over to a man sleeping on a bench and gave him a hard shove. “Lazy bum!” he shouted. The man jumped up. He was short, had a long greying beard and was wearing a thick coat down to his knees. He faced his attacker for a moment squared off for a fight, then thought better of it and turned and started walking away. It was a far from even match. The instigator was young and strong looking, the older man just tired. The younger one took a step forward and shoved him from behind. He stumbled and almost fell, but then turned back around ready to stand his ground. A soft faced middle aged man walked in the middle and spoke to them calmly like old neighbors. “Hey, hey, cool out.” He raised up his hands in both directions. “We don’t need this here, just cool off. None of that. All these people came out here to stay with us, let’s not do this right now.” They both looked at him and circled each other while everyone watched on nervously. Suddenly the younger man went for the older one again. They met in a scuffle, but the marine I’d been talking to and his friend, also a large marine vet, put themselves in the middle to break it up. Others crowded in and they formed a mass of bodies that stumbled down the walkway away from us towards the street. Through the commotion I could see the two men repeatedly pulled apart only to lunge at each other again. “When two guys want to fight, sometimes you just gotta let them fight, get it over with,” Jeremy said. “Not here. Get them out of here,” a man behind us said. He said it as a command staring intently down at the street. “Let them do it somewhere else where they’re not going to get us all arrested.” “I’m not saying they gotta do it here, I’m just saying if two guys want to fight, they’re going to fight, not much anyone can do about it.” “Yeah but not here. Last thing we need is the fucking cops called.” His eyes flashed and he was getting angry. I heard a shriek of twisting metal and then a crunching sound and looked back down towards the street. The younger man, the angry one, was silhouetted in the street light with something curved and metal held up over his head. It looked like a scythe raised for murder.
:: ISSUE 19 ::
“Holy shit, he tore the bike rack out of the sidewalk,” Jeremy clarified before I could ask, looking as startled as he did impressed. As the bike rack swung down at the old man’s head one of the marines grabbed it from behind and pulled it free. He tossed it into the trees and got ready to get between them again. “Get them the fuck out of here,” the man behind us said and shoved past us to go down to the fight. As the two men went for each other again, more people crowded in to pull them apart and they all came tumbling back up to where we were. “Peace brothers, peace,” an older hippy looking woman pleaded with them walking along side the group. “There’s too much violence in the world, let’s not create any more.” They were separated again with at least ten people between them. For a moment they stood there breathing heavily and facing off. “That’s enough!” said the man who’d originally tried to mediate. “Let’s stop this, we’re done.” He took the older man by the arm and tried to walk him away. Somehow, the younger man came up with a four foot long black metal pipe and ran at the older man from behind. This time he got through and he brought the pipe down twice on him hard. The older man went down beneath it. He shielded himself with his arms and tried to back away across the ground, but the pipe kept coming down on him. “Oh my god, someone call the police!” a woman shouted. “No!” one of the punks who’d been singing yelled at her. “We don’t need any fucking pigs here.” “Someone’s going to get killed!” As the younger man brought the pipe up for another blow the marines finally got behind and grabbed hold of the end, wresting it away. He let it go, scrambled forward and jumped on top of the older man. They fought on the ground for a minute while everyone screamed around them. Standing on the sidelines I couldn’t see anything through the crowd or make out much sound over the yelling. The noise died suddenly like a collective gasp. I heard a clinking sound of metal on the concrete and everything stopped. Before I could see what happened, the older man had run off. “Oh god he’s been stabbed,” I heard. There was a knife on the ground and blood around it. The younger man was walking around with his hands on his hips and his head down, a stab wound in his ribs. He looked like he was walking off jogging cramps. “I’m calling the police,” a woman said pulling out her cellphone. No one protested. “I don’t think that guy’s coming back tonight,” Jeremy said, “If I were him I wouldn’t be. He really got him.” “Good,” Sara said, “It wasn’t his fault.” The three from our group who’d been nervous to start with had seen enough and were walking back to the van. Since they were our ride we had to follow. We walked behind them. It felt as wrong to leave as it had to stand there and watch the whole thing. By the time we caught up to them they were already pulling away. “Why go now?”Jeremy said through the window. “It’s over, he’s not coming back.” “We’re leaving,” the girl said looking at her two friends, “This isn’t a protest, I don’t know what... I don’t want to deal with police or anything else.” They waited for a second for us to get in, then drove off. We walked back up and stood around for a minute. A homeless man was pouring a bottle of water over the blood on the ground shaking his head. The younger man had left and there was a trail of blood drops following him out of the park. “Yeah, Cleveland’s kind of rough sometimes,” Jeremy said to me. It sounded like an apology. I nodded. Most people were gone now except for the homeless and about a quarter of the protestors who were there before. Someone was walking around handing out blankets.
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