Intersection

Fall 2021

“Wait for me.”

There’s a man in the intersection, and he is yelling at stopped traffic, berating the drivers as they wait for the left turn signal to cycle to green.

The caller refused to look at Him and the man became enraged, banging on the man’s windshield and frightening him enough that he felt compelled to call 9-1-1.

I’m asked to resolve this- to walk into the intersection, assess what’s going on and take appropriate action to stop it.

A message from my area partner on the in-car terminal warns me to wait. To not approach this guy by myself.

I meet Area Partner behind the library where we can observe the man in action.

He wears a decrepit white t-shirt, stained under the arms and in various patches throughout. The white that struggles through is a pitiful shell of its former self. Dim. Hopeless.

His jeans are filthy, the denim fusing with the detritus of His hapless existence to form a new fabric altogether. They shine with a candy coating of sweat, grit, and grime. The porous cotton can absorb no more.

His once-white shoes are barely worthy of the name, the laces fighting valiantly to keep the once-proud leather from blossoming outward into a grotesque sewage-colored flower.

The laces are losing.

He is unwashed, rail thin, and sunbunrt, at some point having passed through healthy olive and into an iresome shade of red that glistens with sickness and sweat. His dirty blond hair, dirty and blond, frames the shadow of his face, the matted bangs forming a curtain where behind hide his dull and spark-less eyes.

The sparse hair on his chin and cheeks betrays the brooding intensity of his presence, the last remaining shred of his youth.

A closer look reveals that this isn’t a man, but a 19 to 20 year-old kid.

His fury is palpable, and adds 10 years to his appearance.

He punctuates his vitriolic sermon with violent flourishes, his finger pointing emphatically at the accused in their climate-controlled bubbles. Their arrogance offends him. Their EXISTENCE offends him. How dare they.

Area Partner knows Him well.

He does this every day, standing in the median and demanding recompense, raging at the disrespect of a driver who doesn’t pay up. The worst offenders are those that refuse to look at him, the ones who refuse to acknowledge his existence.

It would seem the best course of action would be to pay His toll or apologize for failing to do so.

So far, he’s not attempted to harm a civilian driver, but just bangs on the windshield, pulls on the door handle, and/or yells obscenities. Cop cars are a major trigger, eliciting middle fingers when he’s feeling peaceful, thrown projectiles and a physical charge most frequently.

He calls 9-1-1 and berates the dispatcher nearly every time he spots a cruiser.

Last month he jumped on a firetruck that entered his intersection and would not disembark without coercion. Officers had to remove him from the rig, carting him off to jail for his antics. He was back that same evening.

Our county courts will not prosecute him, refuse to hold him in jail for a few days or mandate that he receive treatment.

According to Area Partner, the kid cannot be reasoned with. He will attack if approached, prompting the violent and potentially lethal encounter of fighting in the middle of a busy intersection. The kid will not be held accountable by the machine, but WE might if something goes awry.

Through trial and error, Area Partner’s found that the best course of action is to scare the kid off.

“We gotta step to him HARD. Light the taser up so he can see it, tell him to get the fuck outta here. He don’t respond to nothing else. Sucks, but if we go in soft he’s gonna fight every time. It ain’t worth it.”

Well alright…

As we go through our final preparations, the kid leaves the intersection. He seems to notice us and I guess he doesn’t feel like fighting today. He screams obscenities in our direction as he crosses the street in the opposite of our direction.

“What’s his name?”. I want to know in case I’m called back here.

“It’s Bryan.”

Damn, man.

I knew this kid.

I remember him from when I worked this area 7-8 years ago.

I remember him as a scrawny 12 and 13 year-old who life had already beaten into the floor, pistol-whipping and robbing him of his innocence to add insult to injury.

We used to catch him with cigarettes, alcohol, maybe a little bit of weed. His dad was nuts, and I don’t think mom was still in the picture. It seemed like there was nowhere for him to go. He was always honest and respectful, and we tried to provide guidance the best way we knew how. I wish that I were wiser, then.

I felt sorry for him.

There were rumors that he was trading sexual favors for intoxicants with a group of vagrants in the area. It explained his twitch, the jerky nature of his movements, the shiftiness in his speech. Bryan looked up to these guys, men in their 20’s, 30’s, and beyond.

The rumors enraged me. I never determined their veracity, but it certainly wasn’t out of the question that they were true. The group in question had become subhuman in their behavior, closer to animal than man in their relentless pursuit of carnal desires and hedonistic pleasures. They were destroyers.

And I could’ve killed them for this.

As an alternative, we settled for hammering away at them until they were legally removed from the equation (if not morally). I’ll never know if it made any difference for Bryan. The damage was quite possibly already been done.

An undercover on my team bought an ounce of weed from Bryan when he was 17 and was arrested immediately. I realized it was him as soon as I heard his voice. By this point, he had started using tougher language, but was still the same naive kid. He had no idea what happened to him that night, thought we were just really lucky. I don’t think we ever sought charges for it.

We felt sorry for him.

How could we not?

It was easy when his face still resembled something innocent, when his eyes were still hopeful that maybe things would somehow work out. When he was still bound by the social contract, the terms of which clearly stated that there was good and evil in the world, and that one day- even for someone like him- good may prevail.

That someone or something might still swoop in and save him.

The contract is now void.

That boy is no more.

Overcome by the overwhelming darkness of his experience, all of the pain and betrayal and hate of his reality is now weaponized, transforming his life into a white-hot rage of an existence that is repulsive, dangerous, and vile.

The wretched creature in this intersection has lost the battle.

Bryan is gone.

His descent into madness was a safe bet, if not predetermined than at least highly likely. How much is a young human required to absorb before we excuse their mirroring of all that they have known?

This kid has definitely earned some sympathy. He probably warrants a great deal of it.

But as he rants, raves, and rages a mere 30 yards away, I feel nothing but vigilance. I don’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for him in such close proximity.

I’m certainly disgusted with the circumstances that led him to this moment, or those that serve only to keep him here. And perhaps I fear what his condition means for us all.

There’s also the fact that I was called and tasked with protecting others from the fear and apprehension that results from being in his presence.

A part of my heart hurts for the child that he was, for what he could have become, and I wonder if one day I will read about his violent end.

“Area man shot by motorist while asking for change”.

“Panhandler shot by police. Officer on paid leave while investigation ensues.”

At some point, he crossed over from a realm of hope (however slim) to one of destruction, reaching that tragic tipping point between the salvageable and dangerous. From victim to attacker.

How much would it take to bring him back from the abyss?

Is it even possible?

I wish I could’ve helped him, but instantly feel arrogant for the thought. I hope against hope that he doesn’t hurt others in the way that he was hurt, that he sticks to harassing motorists and yelling at police. That he sticks to picking on people his own size.

I’m reminded of the twisted paths our lives can take, of the importance of our influence and impact on the human beings around us. I’m reminded that there is a very real possibility that we can stray way too far, that we can be led into depths from which we cannot return.

And I’m reminded of the importance of being prepared for when our lives intersect.

I hope this kid finds peace. I hope that he wants to.

If he does, I wish him luck.

Take care, Bryan.

Thanks for reading.