#silverspringstandoff

Memories are only fragments of what really happens. We do not remember things as clearly as most believe. Experiences are turned into fragments, associated with previous experiences, catalogued away in bits inside our grey matter, and those bits color future experiences with their mythology. I can remember when I was being shown the apartment I currently live in, I walked out onto the balcony and I believe the thought was, “So much for the view.” The apartment is on the 12th floor and it overlooks a large expanse of wooded communities that stretch as far as the eye can see. You can view the Mormon Temple in the distance, and across the street is a military biomedical facility that I am absolutely certain will be ground zero for the zombie apocalypse. But below me, just beyond the parking spaces, behind a fence is a landscape company. The ground is often muddy, and there is a mountain of mulch that on wet days smells like complete ass.

          In time I didn’t mind the smell as much, you get used to it. And, every morning, I would start my coffee, and step outside to the balcony and have the morning smoke. While I did so, I would watch the men working down below. The little bulldozer they used to move mulch and such is one of those one-seater jobs and not meant for much other than small things.

          Yesterday, I awoke at around 8:30 am and as usual stepped outside while the coffee brewed. As soon as I lit the smoke I noticed a large number of police cars blocking the entire area. I remember thinking that perhaps it was an accident, and began to survey the area for the wreck. But I didn’t see it. Instead, I began to notice the landscape dotted with officers, with guns drawn. Some were in full riot gear with shields, all of them were taking positions on the landscape company’s property.

          It was puzzling at first, and I even entertained the idea it was some sort of drill before realizing how stupid that sounded. I mean, everyone was still working it seemed. The little bull dozer was working away dropping piles of cut log portions by the mulch pile. But then I saw other workers being led out of the place by officers. And it hit me; they were surrounding the bulldozer.

          I learned later that the man driving the bulldozer had just earlier snapped at work, pulled out a shotgun, fired it into the mulch and then proceeded to point it at another employee. And now, as I watched, he was digging a hole in the ground around himself going as deep as he could. I remember saying out loud, “Doesn’t he know he’s making a kill box for himself? That’s where you go to die when the men with guns are all above you with clear shots.” The metaphor did not escape me that the man was actually digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole.

          I will spare you most of the three and a half hours I spent watching all of this. Except one detail. At the very end, I watched him get out of the truck he had replaced the bulldozer with earlier, walk out of the pit he had made, and casually stroll along a short distance as guns stayed aimed upon him the entire way. He seemed so care free as he did so. Just swinging the gun like it was a faithful old rag. And then he disappeared from my site, and I heard the shot. When I saw everyone stand down, I knew what had happened. The shot hadn’t come from any of the officers or men in fatigues with rifles. (Although there were at least 8 shots from them earlier to disable the mini bulldozer.) It had come from his own weapon.

          I took pictures of almost all of those three hours. I felt that if I was trapped in my apartment, and this was going down, then someone should document it. I wasn’t even really afraid that a stray bullet may hit me. It was extremely unlikely being on the 12th floor, but not impossible. I remember being excited though, that I was watching armored vehicles and people in military gear taking positions. Like it was a movie, but for real. You just never really expect to see that kind of thing for real. Even more so how it ended. And even less expected, was the truth that when it was over, I didn’t feel anything at all. No fear, no panic, not even horror. There was nothing.

          But I also knew, that from now on, every time I look down as I stand on the balcony, that it will always be the place where I watched it happen. Later that night, as I watched television, it seemed everything I watched had some sort of hostage situation or stand-off. I kept having to turn it off. Not because it brought out emotions, but more a feeling of loathing and dread in my stomach that the television had it all wrong.

          This morning, when I stepped outside, everything was back to normal. Forensics had taken all evidence that anything had happened at all. The same men from the landscape company were working doing the same jobs below. Traffic eased on down the road, and the military facility was business as usual. Business as usual. Except for that hole in the ground from the day before. It was still there.

          There was something deeply disturbing about the whole thing, how time just keeps pushing on, and how the world around us does as well. But I knew something had happened. Yet anyone after me in this apartment won’t see that landscape below the same way I do. It’s my experience, and even though it was experienced by others, all of them are different. It’s not the same at all. We merely share a moment, not an experience. We bring all previous experiences and fragments with us, include our present and our surroundings, our own perceptions, sensations and instincts, and motivations. You cannot share an experience.

          The numbness I wasn’t aware of yesterday, became a real physical presence wrapping around my head. Today, I could feel the numbness. I was aware that something profound had happened to me, but I just couldn’t process it yet. Somewhere somehow I would make some sort of sense of it, learn something from it. But right now, all I could think was, “You never know when you’re going to wake up to crazy and step in it.” And I knew for certain, I didn’t ever want to be that guy digging the hole for himself. He could have ran, given up, anything… But he couldn’t see or didn’t want a way out. And that stroll I watched him make said he was good with that.

          Even now, I know that I cannot remember everything about that day. Pieces are there, images, sounds, placements, moments, but not all of it. Despite shooting 144 pictures. And I know in time those fragments will fade, but they will color future experiences despite that. It becomes part of the mythology.