Oblivio: Stories and such by Michael Barrish

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Happening | Feb 04 2002

I don’t know what just happened. Something wasn’t right when I reached the corner of Broadway and Marcy. Clusters of men were milling about, looking south, up Broadway, or some cases east, up Marcy. I couldn’t see what they were looking at, but I could hear this weird sound that seemed to be coming from somewhere beyond the building over yonder, across Broadway and a bit south. It sounded like a cross between a fog horn and someone shouting the word fight, or maybe fought, over and over. Whatever it was, I’m pretty sure it was being made by a person.

While pondering this, I noticed the police car parked in front of the deli on the opposite corner. Apparently the cops had been in a hurry, for they had parked at an angle to the curb and backwards. Looking south, I spotted several dozen well-dressed Hasidic Jews—a mix of men and women—approaching Marcy, expressions of concern on their faces.

I wanted to know what was happening, but since I was already late to meet Rachel for dinner, I reluctantly climbed the stairs to the J train. As I reached the platform, the Hasidic posse appeared on the opposite platform, pouring in through the service entrance. I followed them on my side as they marched south along the platform. Toward the end, on their side, I saw a man face-down on the cement. A cop had his foot on the man’s back and was peering over the side of the wall that borders the platform. He had a flashlight in one hand, a gun in the other.

The Brooklyn-Queens expressway passes under the platform here. At first I thought the cop was looking down onto the expressway, but then I stood across from him and glanced over the wall on my side. We were ten feet beyond the expressway: the cop was looking at what was probably the grass along the edge of the road.

The Hasids stood together near the cop, gesturing wildly, almost like caricatures of concerned people. Some had their elbows on the wall, feet off the ground, and were peering over. The men wore those crazy hats they wear, the kind that look like enormous car engine filters but with fur on them. Because of the wind (it’s windy tonight), their hats would periodically begin to lift off their heads, so they would keep reach up to smush them down.

I tried to get a look at the man on the cement. He was large, with a mop of dark hair, and seemed oddly relaxed.

Then my train came and I got on, although I continued watching through the window as the cop took his foot off the man and cuffed him.

That’s all I know. I’m writing this on a different train, having overshot Pacific by five stops.

I think I’m upset.

Whatever happened back there, it might still be happening.