Ferguson, MO part 3

“Do you have a gun?” he murmured under his breath looking up to the sky watching a police helicopter fly by.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“A gun.” His Eastern European accent hung in the air “Do you have one?”

“No.” He looked concern. “I was here in ’92, Rodney King. The animals came straight to my door. I had a shotgun.”

“All the way to Van Nuys? You’re kidding.”

“Yes. It will ignite when they let that police officer off in Ferguson. In ’92, A van pulled right up to the door” he waved his hand at the gate. “Right there. I pump’d shotgun, aimed it at that gate, where they stood. They left. Went down the street. Do you see the Mexican restaurant?”

He indicated towards a vacant building. “Uh…no.”

“Because they burned that place down.” He shook his head “Animals.” He kept staring off as my car battery was charging in his mechanic’s shop. “You have family?”

“No. Not here.”

“Once you have family, you have to think of these things.”

He was mentioning the far reaching effects that the decision in Ferguson was going to make. I’ve never owned a gun, nor do I have the interest. I certainly wouldn’t use it against a fellow man. But we’re not talking about rational moments. He lived through an irrational time. Who would’ve guessed a decision in downtown Los Angeles would stretch to the lengths of the San Fernando Valley.

How stupid was I? Or what memory I had. My last blog about this did have me the parking lot of Kroger when a pack of black teens got in the face of my group of friends. “Go back to China.” The black kid hissed. I turned and shouted “Go back to Africa.” My friend couldn’t believe I’d said that. I was 19 at the time. Balls beyond balls. The kid came up to my face. “What’d you say?”

“You told me to go back to China, I told you to go back to Africa.” Man was I scared. This was going to be a throw down. And as far as I knew, none of my friends have ever fought. “Fuck you.” He disappeared with his friends. Bullies aren’t use to be being responded to.

As I’m older now, all I can do is use rationalization. Los Angeles had its bruised eye and ego. They’ve rebuilt and re-trained. Blacks are harder out here. Harder in the sense that they are much more savvier than mid-western Ohio. If they spent any jail time, it would be a much harsher place than Cincinnati. These are things to consider when confronting people.

The Eastern European guy looked at me, leaned in as a father would to a son “you’re a nice guy. You don’t see a lot of this. They are animals” He flipped open his wallet. It was a detective badge. He used to work in some law enforcement office.

“I just like to think the best of people. When I can.”

“Good luck.” He seemed to roll his eyes.

My car battery was charged. I headed out into the urban jungle heading right to my home to sleep. I woke up this morning, they'd burned and looted Ferguson anyway. I was right. Nothing in L.A. But I was also wrong.