Tryon and Trade
You can already hear the sirens, standing on the stoop of an apartment with three of your closest friends on a warm September evening. Across the street, a shop owner is hurriedly boarding up his windows, nervously looking over his shoulder at you as the sun vanishes behind the glimmering Bank of America tower. A matte black police car cruises down the street, slowing to a crawl in front of the stoop. The car never stops, but you can feel the malevolent gaze of the officer through the car’s darkened windows. Silas, who rents the stoop you’re standing on, breaks the tension by muttering an old cop joke through drags of his Camel cigarette.
“What do you call two cops having sex?”
You know the punchline, but enjoy a hearty laugh anyway.
Night has fallen, and the air is filled with U.N.-sanctioned chemicals. Downtown Charlotte is sealed off to the outside world, but bright-eyed helicopters hover far overhead, beaming the chaos to screens across the world. Keith Lamont Scott’s name echoes off the buildings, punctuated by the pops of tear gas grenades and the clopping of horse hooves on asphalt.
Your face is burning — the home-remedy for tear gas exposure has failed miserably — but you’re held up by your comrades-in-chaos, their arms looped through yours. On your right, James — the great-grandson of a black sharecropper whose last name adorns streets and schools throughout the city — stands defiantly, hurling insults at the heavily-armored riot cops advancing down Tryon Street. On your left, Dolores — a Puerto Rican gender studies major whose great-uncle allegedly invented the ATM — swears in pain as the toxic air slowly seals her eyes and throat shut. Beyond them, a black-clad rainbow of citizens stretches from one sidewalk to the other, the last line of defense between the riot cops and the epicenter of the rally.
Another pop, and your body swells with pain. You crumple onto the asphalt next to the bean bag that just cracked your ribs, then roll onto your back, gazing up at the moonless, starless night sky, listening to Keith Lamont Scott’s name.
