Run, Sun, Run

It was civil dawn. The peak time right between twilight and sunrise with the sun just six degrees away from breaking daylight. Narrowly rising to the East and lighting up the horizon in a rich, warm color palate of reds, oranges, yellows and purples; layered amidst the drifting clouds.

The two of them were just aimlessly walking through life’s open landscape like a scene cut out of one of those films you would view in grade school. The kind of film that the teacher would wheel out the bulky, gray movie projectors for with the old-fashioned film reels. The kind of film that was soaked in primary colors then washed out with a heavy sepia undertone. The kind of film that would demonstrate a life lesson to be learned through a narrator who sounded like a monotonous, antiquated mix of Ward Cleaver and Mike Brady. The kind of film that you would put your head down on the classroom desk and either doze off or daydream to.

At this ante meridiem hour of day -- the landscape was in still-life mode except for Mother Nature happening all around. Birds chirped blissfully. Tree tops swayed limber and lackadaisical in motion. Flowers sprouted in full bloom purposefully without a direct purpose -- just with the need to be free. The tiniest of nature’s creatures scurried across the wide-open terrain without the teensiest sliver of concern. The morning dew slid down tall blades of grass all languorous and down to earth in disposition, and if you listened very carefully you could hear the wind hum instead of whistle as if the earth weren’t spinning at over a thousand miles per hour. This was a serene scene of tranquility.

So quiet you wonder if there is actual sound proof to the philosophical tree falling in the forest ideal. This ideal pits observation against perception. If you’re not there to hear the falling tree hit the ground does it make a sound or do you just assume it makes a sound just like anything else that falls to the ground. Once the tree makes contact with the ground is it loud or is it quiet?

Now imagine the hunter as the tree falling repeatedly throughout this wide-open space as he moves about.

Quiet enough to go unnoticed.

Quiet enough to not notice when something else or someone else is noticing them.

And he was noticing them.

Watching them.

Lying in wait for them.

The dispatcher’s voice with its intermittent static from the police scanner interrupted the silent conversation that was being had between the two as they lie and wait. Reminding us of just a couple of good old boys never meaning no harm.

One of the men perked up at the mention of possible robbery suspects in the area that muffled its way through the static. He immediately reached his hand around to the back of his waistband reaching for that nagging itch that has become an automated reflex at the mere mention of trigger words such as “black” and “suspect,” especially when strung together creating a narrative that fit the description to perfection according to his reasoning.

He motioned for his partner in the driver’s seat to move at a pace that was akin to earthworms retreating back to the comfort of the soil after a warm, summer rain while he eyed every inch of space in this concrete jungle. He motioned once more for his partner to stop the vehicle.

“I spy with my little blue eye.”

He was the hunter in this Bob Ross painting come to life. Sticking out like the sorest of thumbs yet practically hiding in plain sight. Camouflaged like a wolf in sheep’s clothing – not in his usual basic blues and heavy black boots or waving his badge like the American flag, but still bound by his belief to serve and protect only goes skin deep. Blending well within the environment he was policing. Treading firmly along this wide-open terrain. Flattening Nature’s creatures and creations with intensity and focus. Zeroing in on his prey with precision and intent.

And there they were. Two for the price of one – he mentally took note. Just the two of them blissfully meandering about in a lackadaisical motion without any direct purpose. Just the two of them reveling in this comfort of tranquility that Mother Nature was offering as if just being able to breathe in fresh, free air wasn’t satisfying enough. Just the two of them fully embodying the characteristics of a gallant buck with his fledgling fawn passing along life lessons in between shared looks of awe and amazement. Moments like this that they often shared when it was just the two of them.

They had emerged from a wasted wonderland. A park of sorts full of mechanical amusement enclosed in a continuous merry go round of eroding iron rods and brass mechanisms that twisted and turned with its coiled coasters of copper rolling along the dirt and dust amongst a rotating ferris of steel-wheeled components suspended mid-air above tilted heaps of nickel-plated trimmings on the verge of tumbling down with the slides of aluminum reflecting the rising sun’s glow like sheets of shimmering water.

This urban off-street fair was a breeding ground for metal thieves and salvagers who sifted through the defective and the damaged scraps of electrical parts, dismantled household appliances and old cars stacked one on top of the other like decommissioned bumper cars beyond repair.

To some, a junkyard didn’t seem like the place for a kid to spend his earliest of mornings. Most would expect him to still be in his jammies, watching cartoons with a bowl full of cereal steeped in half sugar, half milk while building fictitious houses with Lincoln logs. Instead, he was out building character and gaining basic life skills. Alert and ready to work with his pants full of dirt and filth. Searching for buried treasures through scraps of metal from broken down machinery. At the junkyard with his stepfather became a ritualistic past-time for them to bond.

“You hear that?”

“Hear what?“

The young boy glanced over the left side of his shoulder and it happened in an instant. One minute he was standing firmly by his stepfather’s side and the next he was gone. Fear had taken over his body and his first instinct was to run. It was fight or flight and his still developing mind didn’t allow him to distinguish what would have been best for the both of them.

“Run, boy, run…”

The moment the ball of his right foot arched itself off the ground, the joint of his hips extended, his knee flexed and his ankle assumed its proper position as his body began to absorb the force his size five sneakers made each time they touched down on the earth’s surface. Pushing his 10-year-old body forward in motion with all of his might.

His foot game birthing future track and field greats; Lewis, Johnson, Bolt hanging on to the flimsy rubber of his hand-me-down sneakers.

“Run, son, run…”

He ran like he was running down the block; watching the school bus pull away from the corner. Quickly going over the story he was going tell his mother on why he missed school.

He ran like he was running down the field; seconds away from making the winning touchdown. Practicing victory dance moves in his head. He ran like he was running down the court after stealing the basketball from the opposing team’s point guard. Visualizing the amazing slam dunk he was about to make in his head. He ran like he was running from the policeman; running like his life depended on it. Little did he know how much it really did.

“Run, little nigga, run.”

He was on a runner’s high. Feeling euphoric from the natural release of dopamine that had him flying higher than any drug could take him. Guided by the back and forth swing in his long scrawny arms, kept upright by the strength in his long lanky legs and led by the puff of his pint-sized chest. His running form had him prepared to run the long distance, so he was content as his fear faded into a sense of joy; triumph at the thought that he was winning – moving at such a vigorous speed. He heard nothing but the overwhelming palpitations of his pulse. He saw nothing but streaks of color that fused into one tincture. He felt nothing but the air that filled his lungs. Until his breathing hitched. The glide in his stride glitched.

The policeman, posing as a hunter in this concrete jungle, had hit his prey in mid-stride.

Mother Nature went silent.

The chipperness in the chirp from the birds became a melancholic croon as they circled from high above. Tree tops discontinued their natural sway and stood still to impart proper shade over the young boy’s blistering body from the swelter of the sun. The air was no longer fresh nor free. It had grown thick and stale with sorrow.

The young boy did not fall gracefully like a feather from the nine clouds he was running on. He fell like a motionless bag of bones upon the wide-open terrain. Nature’s creatures gathered; nudging away at his feet which smelled of burnt rubber. Nudging away at his hands marred with callouses still gripping the pry tool he was using in the junkyard. Nudging away at his face smudged with specks of dirt and sand. Tufts of turf springing from the cracks within the concrete provided a bit of comfort to rest his weighing head, although now his mind and body were truly free.

“Run, young man, run.”

This once serene scene of tranquility had now become another disturbing spectacle of pointless police brutality.

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