Yesterday evening, I almost
blogged about two things.
(1) As those of you know who are on my mailing list: Last night, my wife and I witnessed
what might have been the aftermath of
a gruesome and macabre murder. As
nothing whatever appeared in the media for some hours after the discovery of
the corpse, I considered at least mentioning it online.
[To be continued, D.V. My wife needs the computer, and so I
retire for the night.
However, should I (cholilleh) by
any chance tomorrow turn up dead --
Don’t believe what you might read
in the press:
It wasn’t suicide.
The finger points to …
=> MR BIG <=
… … …………………….. ]
[Update] To resume.
However, abstention was in order. For, interesting though the incident might be for those who
have often walked that bucolic lakeside dock, improbably overlooking the lieu des faits, it really is nothing more than a local
police-blotter fait-divers, of which the world has millions every day. To discuss the matter on this site
would (especially as I have no inside dope whatsoever) to descent to the level
of FaceBook, that venue of the ephemeral.
The only detail possibly worth
sharing, as presenting a sign of the times, was the sight of a team of
grim-faced burly firemen, carrying a long gaff suitable for fishing cadavers
out of the slimy depths, incongruously decked out in pale pink shirts. When I mentioned this to a friend at
work, she explained that it was for “Breast Cancer Awareness”. But in that case, why weren’t the
gentlemen likewise decked out in sombreros? (Hispanic Heritage Month.)
[Later update] The story is getting weirder, so I’d
better elaborate. This, from an
e-mail sent to friends:
Early this evening, S. and I walked to
the library, via the dockside on Lake *****. There
were half a dozen people standing around, and a couple of policemen.
Someone pointed to what they thought looked like a human corpse floating not
far from the dock. I peered to make it out; it looked like
Hollywood’s idea of a zombie.
Now, today at work, a friend had given
me a nice Halloween drawing, so the first thing that occurred to me was that it
was a Halloween prank. A couple standing beside us concurred.
Twenty minutes later, as we returned
from the library, we saw: half a dozen patrol cars; two or three fire engines;
a large inflatable boat labeled “marine rescue”; an ambulence or two; and
various other vehicles with flashing or whirling lights. Some firemen
were trudging back from the scene, one of them holding a long gaff. “Uhh…
looks like it wasn’t a Halloween prank”, I said. The fireman would
neither confirm nor deny, saying only “The police are handling it.”
The dock was now surrounded by yellow
tape. No attempt had been made to fish the body out. From a new
angle, and now taking the whole thing more seriously, I could see that it was
indeed human, or had been; its hands stuck up from the water, rigid as claws.
[Update 10/10/13] I shared this incident with some
friends and coworkers, current or former residents of this town, and however
slight it be in the larger scheme of things, it piqued their interest. One of them today asked whether the
“Flyer”, the local giveaway rag, had reported on the story (which is indeed a
big one for our sleepy hamlet).
And so I dragged today’s issue from our sopping front lawn, dried it,
and perused.
My heart gave a start, confronted
with a large color photograph of the dockside area of that very lake! Only -- no mention of the body. Instead, a story about the little
three-foot-by-three-foot artificial boxed islands, planted with tall grass,
which have been dubbed “floating wetlands”. Cute, but actually a silly designation, since the point of
wetlands is to absorb excess water, whereas this particular lakelet, itself
brought into being only by the labors of engineers, suffers rather from chronic
aqueous insufficiency.
[Update, a couple of days
later] Finally, the briefest of
mentions has appeared on the Web.
The deceased was in his thirties, race and name unknown, of no known address. But -- get this -- the police are
saying, “No signs of foul play.”
Corpse appears in broad daylight
in six inches of water, looking like a mummy that has been dead ten thousand
years. No-one knows how it got
there. Hands turned into zombie
claws. “No signs of foul play.”
Right.
[Update, evening of 20 October
2013] No -- Wait -- this is too
weird.
My wife was driving home from the
computer lab this evening, on **** **** Parkway, which runs by that very lake,
and noticed two squad cars.
Between them, on the roadway … a large, compact pile of human
intestines. But no body. “They looked fresh,” she said.
[Update 22 October 2013] And again, no reflection of this in any
news source that I can discern.
My wife commented: If we just chanced upon these incidents, within a few days and within walking distance
of each other, and they go unreported -- how much else might be going on that
we don’t know about?
Both these bizarre incidents look
less like accidents, or any sort of crime that makes straightforward sense --
more like warnings, like the horse’s head in the bed.
This hamster is for deliminative purposes only, demarcating between two unrelated topics. |
(2) Like several million other folks, I watched, more or less mesmerized, that video taken by the helmet cam of a biker, part of the wolfpack running down a motorist from out of town, in a car likewise containing his wife and young child. But again, the interest of the incident does not necessarily extend beyond the confines of Manhattan.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOzkePTTALg
But since this week’s New
Yorker promotes it to its Talk of the Town section which goes out to the
whole world, presumably the
proverbial Ladies of Dubuque are even now Tweeting about it, so I’ll toss in my
dime (inflationary value of two cents):
the moreso as Mr. Paumgarten’s effort in that magazine turns out to be a
strange, free-associational piece, by no means reportorial, but starting
elsewhere (in the movies), then meandering into the incident, and back out
again.
The streetscape is the sort to
which we have become acculturated by video games: featureless, depopulated. And with the anomie common to such pastimes (such as Grand
Theft Auto, where we are set into the driver’s seat of a criminal), human
values mean nothing: we can
equally well identify with the biker posse of pursuers (Git ‘im!) or with the automobile driver (knock off as many bikers
as you can -- pock, pock, pock).
Nevertheless, it is a real street,
behind the shaded windows of which (we presume) actual people have been born,
and have died, and have watched TV.
Which leads us to the actual mini-observation that I wanted to get off
my chest.
Chase scenes are among my favorite
things in movies; the medium is
suited for this like no other. But for these to work, certain liberties
must be taken with engineering realities and the laws of physics. Thus: Vehicles keep racing along despite sustaining improbable
levels of damage; traffic (when
present at all) always obligingly lets the racers by; and when the inevitable crash eventually comes, airbags do
not deploy (since that would obscure our view of the highly-paid star).
Of the conventions involved in
movies shot in New York City, one that most requires the suspension of
disbelief, is that, whenever the hero needs to go out and brood, or the like,
the streets are conveniently deserted. That never happens in actual life, save perhaps the
early morning of New Year’s Day. So in this video, since it is a video, we don’t immediately cluck in derision at the fiction
of their being no traffic other than that required for the chase, on this major
street in broad daylight -- but then we realize with a shock -- Wait -- This is
a real street, in real time, and the chase is real, and several people really
did get hurt.
[Afterthought, 20 October 2013] The reasons I blogged about the latter
incident, were:
(1) The creepily
intimate weirdness of having a first-person, helmet-cam view of an ongoing violent incident.
(2) The
increasing resemblance of life to a video-game.
However, the reason this story
figured prominently in the media
had nothing to do with that, but rather the fact that one of the bikers who attacked the
driver was an undercover cop.
A very tricky job, that; we salute those who can pull it
off. His participation in the gang’s
crime is suggestive of the
Stockholm Syndrome, but probably goes deeper than that. After all, the hostages didn’t choose
to be hostages; whereas an
undercover cop chooses that risky line of work, and already at the outset joins the gang.
Further reflection would take this
insight deeper still: the way in
which we are, each one of us, undercover in whatever environment life has
currently thrown us into. As: An old antiwar guy, who finds himself
in a work environment which ….
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