Drive By Shootings

Sometimes time moves slowly.
Like when you fall off, from the top of the jungle gym at school. Like when you fall off your mountain bike at 40 and knock your front teeth out. Like when you see your 2 year old kid, falling through the floor heater vent and you simply reach down and pluck him in mid air from a 20 foot fall. Like when you trip on the top step of a 12 foot ladder.
I remember time moving slowly. On a Friday afternoon.
At 4 pm.
Jason sitting at my computer, logging me in. So I could do something to the website. I couldn't remember my password. He couldn't either.
There are too many passwords, I said.
I don't think I set you up with this password, he said. I wonder who's password I've been using, I said.
George walking in from the warehouse. Dropping something on my desk. And turning to go back outside and commenting about the smell coming from the kitchen. It smells like garlic bread he said.
I could eat some garlic bread right now, I said. Me too, he said.
Jason, trying, still, to log me in. George, walking through the door back out to the warehouse. Peter shuffling by. Nate, in his office, humming to the music. Andrea, sitting next to Jason. At her desk. I am standing.
And then. Six. Six rounds of gunfire.

Like fireworks. Nate, coming out from his office. Jason and Andrea and I standing up and walking towards the front door.
Look, they're all running, she said.
A pickup truck. Was that gunfire? Rick asks. And then more. Like fireworks. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop and pop. And the car, speeding and braking. Screeching. Past the building, still shooting.
Pop. Pop, pop.
Jason yelling to get down, get down. As he grabs the phone and ducks and runs into the warehouse.
Holy shit, I think.
And down I go. Along the ground, into the warehouse. Away from the front of the building. George shuts the rolling door. To the back side of the warehouse.
And 911 is a recording. In Spanish and English. And we're on hold. Listening. Waiting. And the recording plays. And we're on hold. The same thing. On speaker phone. On hold. Recording. Three minutes.
At least there's no hold music, I think. What's taking so long, I say. And finally, they answer. And his voice trembles as he explains. Drive by. Shooting. Just now. Right here.
And 12 minutes later they arrive. To take statements. And look for casings. And view the holes in the cars. In front of the building. All along. Our building. Our side of the street. Has anyone been shot they ask.
At 5:30 pm. I'm on my bike. Riding down the street. Down the same street they drove down at 4pm. In the same direction. And everybody's inside.
Empty and quiet.
Over the weekend I forget about it often. And I remember it often. But it's not in slow motion. It's fast.
I see the car, as we look out the window. I see the pickup, in front of the car. I see the flash of them running. I hear Andrea. I feel the shirt as I pull on Jason to get down. I feel the ground as we jump down, and out into the warehouse. I see the look on George's face.
I hear Rick as he says to the cop downtown?
And then Monday comes and we go, back to work. At the bike company we work at. And we work all day. And we talk about bullet proof vests with our company logo. And things seem almost normal again. And I rationalize that the probability of it happening again is very slim to none.
But nobody eats lunch outside.
At 5:20 pm on a perfect spring evening I ride my bike down the street. Down the same street they drove down on, on Friday at 4 pm.
In the same direction. With Jason. In a few blocks we bid adieu. And I turn left and he turns right and I ride along. Alone.
And I hear them. Again.
I don't count them. Because, the improbably of a second drive by shooting within three days of the first one isn't statistically plausible. At least not for a middle aged mom who commutes on an Xtracycle. And I decide that they're just fireworks. But back at the office Rick hears them. There are 12. And back at the warehouse George hears them. And he wonders about us, because just a few minutes earlier, we all said goodbye. See you tomorrow.
Ride safely.
I hear the car. Speeding and stopping. And I hear more shots. Pop, pop. Pop.
I'm riding my bike. And I feel dizzy. And I ride in a crooked line. And I look for places to hide. And I think about running into a house. Or behind a car. And I think about the time I stole the rubber bouncy ball and how my mom made me take it back and hand it to the clerk at 7 Eleven. And I had to apologize. And I look down the streets as I pass them, to see how close they are to me. And ride as fast as I can, away. And I know they're not after me.
But if they drive by me, will they shoot at me too?
Ride as fast as you can.
To a busy intersection, and I turn right onto Alcatraz, into car traffic. I ride my bike. Next to the cars. To BART. Where there are people. Walking. And riding bikes. And talking. And listening to music. And smiling. And waiting. And I look at them and wonder what they're thinking about right then. Because I'm thinking about drive by shootings. And throwing up.
And I slow down. And ride home. And eat half a burrito. And take a shower. And go to a meeting at the middle school. A PTA board meeting as a nominee for the board. For next year. And we talk about budget deficits. And banners. And picnics. And the library. And I wonder. Where am I, right now. I'm not here.
On Tuesday I drive to work.
And I think to myself, on the way, that I now know. That as soon as you hear them, the fireworks. You get down on the ground. And I now know not to ride my bike through that neighborhood anymore.
Instead, take the long way home.