Today is the Day
A man in green and brown fatigues zigzags. Black paint is streaked across his mocha-colored cheeks. He charges toward my father. Leather boots are laced up to his knees. A sniper rifle is lodged in the crook of his arm.
I remember thinking: “Today is the day I will watch my father die.”
It was our weekly trip to help my grandmother with the upkeep of her lawn. Her home sits on a well-kept three-acre lot on the south side of Gary, Indiana. The house has been featured several times in the local newspapers for her festive decorations and the crowd it draws every holiday.
I remember thinking: “Today is the day I will watch my father die.”
It was our weekly trip to help my grandmother with the upkeep of her lawn. Her home sits on a well-kept three-acre lot on the south side of Gary, Indiana. The house has been featured several times in the local newspapers for her festive decorations and the crowd it draws every holiday.
But in the surrounding lawns, weeds grow rampant. The alley between her house and the neighbor’s is strewn with infested mattresses, stained, ripped and abused; broken furniture that has been hacked, sawed and burned. Rather than disposing of the trash, the neighbors throw it to the street and let it fester. Each week we pray that her neighbors will take the hint to cut their lawns and to clean up the trash. God has yet to answer.
It was a breezy day, though warmed by the July sun. When we first started cutting the lawn, Dad and I noticed several suspicious-looking vehicles passing through the back alley. A Comaro turned sharply onto the gravel. A black SUV followed close behind. Illinois plates, probably a deal. I remember turning my head so that my back faced the cars. Never look a dealer in the eyes. We learned this young.
One by one my grandmother’s friends have moved on. She’s nostalgic about them. As she remembers it, Gary was melting pot of ethnicities from around the world—hardworking Poles, Germans, Slovaks and Irish. Some had just arrived from overseas. They were good-hearted people she explains. They cared about the community.
But for years now, drug dealers have lived on my grandmother’s block. They have come and gone. Windows boarded up. Crime scene tape stretched across porches. The cycle continues. If they don’t get caught, chances are they’ll kill themselves or get killed by someone else in the process.
It’s a waiting game. Calling the police does no good. Her friend, Cully, an older black man, found this out after a brick smashed through his front window. Gangbangers they said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man in fatigues. He appeared from across the street. Running faster and faster he approached my father, who was still blowing excess grass off the sidewalk. My first thought – a Vet had gone mad. Hyped up on god-only-knows-what he wanted to relive the action. My dad was now the sworn enemy.
Dad’s jaw dropped as he raised the blower to waist level. “I thought I’d blow him in the eyes and then beat him to death,” he recalls. Yet the man did not raise his gun as we anticipated. Rather, he waved his arm at my father and signaled for him to get inside—immediately.
I ushered Grandma into the house and dialed 9-1-1. “What is his race?” asked the operator. Did it matter? Thoughts whirled through my mind. Gun. Fatigues. Sniper. “I don’t know. He was a darker-skinned man with gun. He was carrying a GUN.”
Dad burst through the front door. “Holy shit, all hell has broken loose,” he yelled. “Get into the other room. There’s 10 . . . 15 . . . 20 more guys that just jumped out of a van.” He could barely breathe, nonetheless speak. Peeking through the dust-covered blinds we watched the SWAT team members invade the yards in front, in the back and on the sides of her neighbor’s house, which was located directly behind her own.
There were backpacks filled with grenades. Black cotton masks covered the officers’ faces. Just like the movies. Taking turns, they pulled on gas masks and situated their belts decorated with weapons. Snipers positioned themselves in the brush and trees. Their guns were strategically aimed at the neighbor’s backdoor. A helicopter flew overhead. Looking out the front door we could see a machine gun hanging out of the side. Round and round it whirled in the sky.
It was a breezy day, though warmed by the July sun. When we first started cutting the lawn, Dad and I noticed several suspicious-looking vehicles passing through the back alley. A Comaro turned sharply onto the gravel. A black SUV followed close behind. Illinois plates, probably a deal. I remember turning my head so that my back faced the cars. Never look a dealer in the eyes. We learned this young.
One by one my grandmother’s friends have moved on. She’s nostalgic about them. As she remembers it, Gary was melting pot of ethnicities from around the world—hardworking Poles, Germans, Slovaks and Irish. Some had just arrived from overseas. They were good-hearted people she explains. They cared about the community.
But for years now, drug dealers have lived on my grandmother’s block. They have come and gone. Windows boarded up. Crime scene tape stretched across porches. The cycle continues. If they don’t get caught, chances are they’ll kill themselves or get killed by someone else in the process.
It’s a waiting game. Calling the police does no good. Her friend, Cully, an older black man, found this out after a brick smashed through his front window. Gangbangers they said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man in fatigues. He appeared from across the street. Running faster and faster he approached my father, who was still blowing excess grass off the sidewalk. My first thought – a Vet had gone mad. Hyped up on god-only-knows-what he wanted to relive the action. My dad was now the sworn enemy.
Dad’s jaw dropped as he raised the blower to waist level. “I thought I’d blow him in the eyes and then beat him to death,” he recalls. Yet the man did not raise his gun as we anticipated. Rather, he waved his arm at my father and signaled for him to get inside—immediately.
I ushered Grandma into the house and dialed 9-1-1. “What is his race?” asked the operator. Did it matter? Thoughts whirled through my mind. Gun. Fatigues. Sniper. “I don’t know. He was a darker-skinned man with gun. He was carrying a GUN.”
Dad burst through the front door. “Holy shit, all hell has broken loose,” he yelled. “Get into the other room. There’s 10 . . . 15 . . . 20 more guys that just jumped out of a van.” He could barely breathe, nonetheless speak. Peeking through the dust-covered blinds we watched the SWAT team members invade the yards in front, in the back and on the sides of her neighbor’s house, which was located directly behind her own.
There were backpacks filled with grenades. Black cotton masks covered the officers’ faces. Just like the movies. Taking turns, they pulled on gas masks and situated their belts decorated with weapons. Snipers positioned themselves in the brush and trees. Their guns were strategically aimed at the neighbor’s backdoor. A helicopter flew overhead. Looking out the front door we could see a machine gun hanging out of the side. Round and round it whirled in the sky.
“That’s the same shit they had in Vietnam,” my father gasped.
“Oh, Stephen,” sighed my grandmother. “I just don’t know. I just don’t know.”
But the truth is, she did know that this would eventually happen. It was only a matter of time.
In 1997, robbers bored not one but two holes through the sidewall of her garage to steal my grandfather’s tools and equipment. It had been several years since he had passed away. Grandma awoke to find butchered siding, a trail of nails and an empty garage. An alarm system was installed later that day.
Several years later, all of her blowup Easter bunnies were stolen from her backyard. A nicely dressed black man came several days later. He apologized and said she’d have her bunnies back the next day. As promised, a white woman with her black son and his friend dropped off the survivors. The others had been maimed, mutilated or lost in the process.
It was now 2:15 p.m.—two hours after the invasion first began. Finally, noise. Several SWAT team members ripped down the fence barricading the dealer’s house. One. Two. Three. Pull. The rackety old wood fell to the ground. A “silencer” was launched through window. We ducked. Shortly after, movement. A Hispanic woman ran from the house into the backyard. Through junk piles and knee-high weeds she charged. She looked. Right. Left. She stopped. She then hurdled what was left of the fence on the side of the house. To her surprise, police dogs and guns awaited her arrival.
We were trapped in the crossfire. Gary police had finally arrived; however, they only blocked off the entryways and exits to the area. This was not their operation. This was not your petty dealer.
A loudspeaker announced: “YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES TO LEAVE THE HOUSE. I repeat: YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.”
We held our breath. Bu-dump. Bu-dump. Bu-dump. Hearts pounding. The three of us waited.
Earlier that summer, a fifty-five-year-old white woman named Helen paid a visit to my grandmother. She drove a tired, rusted-out sedan with broken windows that matched the dented framework of her vehicle. Nervously, Grandma waited for Dad and me to arrive. It was our weekly visit to cut the lawn.
Helen is an overweight, slovenly woman who was wearing an apron-like shirt of sorts. Lesions dotted her arms and neck. Rotten teeth protruded from her crooked smile. She had come to use the phone since hers was broken; however, my grandmother knew better. Helen had been a transient for several years after her house was condemned as a health hazard. Feces coated the floor of the home—too many cats and dogs.
Yet Helen was a product of her environment. She never had chance. Being from the same class as my dad, he recalls how she was treated. He explained that she never was a “normal” child. The nuns took notice of this and attempted to beat “goodness” into her. That’s a good old-fashioned Catholic upbringing for you. He remembers the day they dragged her down the concrete steps—headfirst. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Among the homeless, there have always been the strays, watchdogs and the abused. We’ve seen them all. Driving home the Easter of 2000, we were waiting at a stop sign. Easter traffic. To the left of our car, a dog was lying on the ground chained to a metal fence. My little sister asked, “Daddy, is the dog dead?” Dad responded, though with a slight hint of hesitation, “No. . . . Of course not.” Soon my two brothers started taunting my sister. “The dog is dead. The dog is dead.” Tears were rolling. Well as it turns out, the dog was, in fact, dead. Its carcass lied among broken bottles, trash and faint remnants of snow.
We had started to become restless. The drone of the helicopter still radiated through the thin walls. Our eyes were glued to the scene. We were each stationed at a window. The countdown had already begun. We knew something was about to happen.
A faint noise was heard.
Pop . . .
pop . . .
pop . . . pop . . .
pop.
Silence.
The SWAT team started to disband. None of the suspects had exited the building. Shot dead, we presumed. As Dad and I drove home later that afternoon, we saw the infamous yellow tape. An ambulance waited just down the road.
The SWAT team started to disband. None of the suspects had exited the building. Shot dead, we presumed. As Dad and I drove home later that afternoon, we saw the infamous yellow tape. An ambulance waited just down the road.