Sunday, August 26, 2012
The sidewalk reverberates with the thousands of cars driving overhead, coming into me through the sole of my shoes and then up through my legs, venturing further within. The sound of the combined motors, all swooshing and speeding so high above is like a mechanized river, sometimes fading in and out with strength, but never ceasing.
On the street in front of me, shadowed too by the freeway overpasses above, is a white car. It is the kind of vehicle used for commercial purposes. The kind with tools and extra seats for capable men and a spot for a water cooler in the back. It is a new, still shiny, clean and white, baring none of the scratches of a well-worn vehicle.
There are a dozen police milling around the vehicle. Some have climbed into it, pulling open the screwed in seats. Others look through the dozens of compartments along the sides, pulling out tools, inspecting them, holding up greasy bottles to the light.
Inside the car I can see a brown skinned man crouched in the compartment below where a seat cushion would have hidden him. The vinyl seat is still in a police officer’s hand as he shouts orders. The man is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. He remains in the fetal position he had been in as the shelter is revealed, stunned, blinking at the new source of light. Several Latin men are already on the sidewalk, laying flat against the ground, their arms handcuffed behind their backs.
The cops' voices are loud and harsh. The motors of the half dozen police cars are still running, their lights are on, the bright colors of their screaming sirens diffuse into the day. The smell of car exhaust is strong, unchanging despite the steady breeze.
People in business suits walk by the scene undisturbed. Most give only a passing glance to the white commercial vehicle and its occupants. Women in gray dresses and lipstick, men carrying briefcases and sacks of takeout from nearby restaurants. Barely a glance at the scene. A breeze blows past me, sending chills over my sandaled feet. The chill rises, finding my chest.
The police men are pale and distant, uncaring in this bust spawned only by human need. Their bodies are big and covered in muscle, covered once again by thin blue fabric. Their guns are black, somehow glistening even in the shade of the multiple freeways overhead.
My white skirt blows in the wind, tempting my calves with a delicate touch. I am cold, standing in the shade of a thousand moving cars.