The mobs have returned

Two Saturdays ago during last-minute preparations for my birthday party, I heard a ruckus from the street below and went to the window to investigate. It was 7 p.m.

Looking through the right-most window of our rotunda, I could see that my strange neighbors – all nine of them – had congregated on the street in front of their dilapidated first-floor balcony. There was much gesturing – I couldn’t help being reminded of a troop of agitated primates – and several of them were yelling at someone out of my field of vision.

I moved to one of the other five of our aerie windows and looked down. Lying on the sidewalk was a boy of about 15. His shoes were off, and he was surrounded by a group of 10 kids who were yelling and gesturing at my neighbors.

About a minute later, the first police car showed up, parking on the sidewalk between the two groups. The yelling died down a bit and I ran to get the camera and a beer.

Over the course of the next five minutes, four more police cars showed up, with none other than the Chief of Police emerging from the last car. Everyone seemed suitably impressed at his rank, and the mood turned cooperative. The ambulance showed up shortly thereafter.

Interviews between the principals ensued, and from what I overheard from two floors up, the youth lying there holding his head had spray-painted graffiti on the neighbors’ building. One of the family’s boys had caught him in the act, chased him down, and thrashed him.

Which, though I am against violence, seemed proper to me. Because even though most of the neighbor family are strangies, they are fundamentally nice strangies, and I hate seeing senseless persecution of people just because they’re odd.

The drama concluded when the boys who had fought reluctantly shook hands.

I suppose it was hoped that this would help deter future problems, but yesterday one of the neighbor boys showed me how all his bicycle’s cables had been cut at school.

“But that’s all right,” he said. “We’ll get them back.”