Life & Death

After I dropped my kids off at their Mom's last night, and parked my car, and walked home, something awful happened.

I was writing, as usual, in the front room of my apartment when I heard five gun blasts from a pistol out front. The blasts were so loud, I knew they were from a serious weapon, probably a 45 caliber.

The explosions set off the automated alarm at the corner store. As I ran out front to see what had happened I first glanced left, toward the store, because of the alarm. Not long before, one of my kids had walked there to buy some treats for himself and his siblings, as all three of them have done countless times over the years.

As I watched, a neighbor from across the street who works at the store ran out of his front door and headed there on the run.

But then I looked right. And there on the sidewalk lay a man face down. I immediately dialed 911, and told the operator that a man has been shot, please get here fast, come right away, it's bad, really bad.

As she took down my name and address, I saw his body heave its final sigh and collapse into an awful flatness.

"He's dead!" I screamed.

Within seconds, the first responders arrived. I watched as they tried to revive the man. Meanwhile, another neighbor, a young man, distraught and hysterical, ran up and down the street yelling: "No! Oh no!"

Yet another neighbor, much older, with hair as white as mine, also was on the scene, and looked disoriented and very disturbed. He approached the body as the emergency workers tried to revive it and had to be told to back away.

Soon the area was covered in cops, firemen, all sorts of responders. A woman ran out of her house nearby and screamed "He is my son. Can you save him? CAN YOU SAVE HIM?!" She had to be restrained, sobbing and wailing into the night, one of the most awful sounds I have ever heard.

As I watched, they gave up and laid a piece of plastic over the man. Then the crying spread as other family members rushed to the street and realized what had happened.

The dead man had been walking his dog. Over the years, I got to know him due to his friendly manner. He was a striking figure -- tall, lean, black, with a fancy hat and the kind of attitude that revealed a sense of humor and an ability to connect with others around him.

I'd say he had charisma.

Normally, I'm pretty reclusive, like most writers, and kind of shy. I don't get to know my neighbors easily, like many inner-city residents, and I am not proud of that. But this man was among my favorite people to encounter when I was out and about.

He always had a knowing smile, a greeting, a certain way of connecting. "How are the kids?" He'd ask. "They're gettin' big."

He made me feel oriented, in that way, recognized as a part of the neighborhood.

Today, I went down to his relatives' houses, took off my hat and held it over my heart, and told them how sorry I am that he has died. I told them he was a good man. They thanked me, but their eyes were filled with tears.

Tonight, a memorial is growing outside of my front window. There are many candles, flowers, and lots of empty beer and liquor bottles (I don't understand the those empty bottle gestures but pretty clearly all the men around here are getting drunk, and I fear there may soon be more incidents. Guys are yelling.)

There also have been many people gathering here all day long. And reporters and photographers and undercover police, no doubt hoping that the killers decide to revisit the scene.

I've read the press reports and talked to the neighbors. I know what the conventional wisdom is. He was a drug dealer. He had problems. He was affiliated with one of the Latino gangs that war over territory around here, the "Northerners" and the "Southerners."

But I also know he was a very friendly man in a pretty unfriendly place, a place that can be lonely and alienating and scary at times, but the place I also call home.

And I'm going to miss him.

Last night, after being interviewed by the cops, I sat alone here, shaking and scared. I didn't know what to do but I needed to "talk" to somebody. So I emailed my adult kids, but by then it was after midnight.

Then, I did something very strange. It surprised me. I emailed the ex-girlfriends who, over the eight years I have lived here, sometimes stayed here with me and know what this neighborhood is like.

Two of them responded, and one of them called me.

I feel a great deal of comfort as a result. After all, I live alone, and when this happened, I wish I had had someone here to hold onto. But I don't. But at some points in the past I did. So those people remain precious to me, and I when I needed them last night and this morning, they chose to respond.

There really is no way to express what that means to me other than to say that what one of them told me a long time ago might just turn out to be true: "Once you've loved someone, on some level, you will always love them."

Thank you, J&J. Thank you.

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