A Macabre Symphony
I had been promising to spend some time with my parents for several weeks. Since they had just moved to Chicago, a mere three months after I had done the same, I no longer possessed any excuse whatsoever to keep pushing them to the side, and so I happily rushed out of the door when my dad blew the horn this morning as he pulled into my driveway. We immediately began to talk and laugh, and I had forgotten how much I enjoy talking to my parents—most of the time. As we turned on to 95th street, I saw a McDonalds and realising that it had been ages since I ordered breakfast there, I offered to pick something up for all of us. We pulled into the lot, I asked what everyone wanted, and I proceeded inside the store to make my purchase.
The line was moving particularly slow this morning and I remember thinking to myself, "Is this really worth it?"
Clearly, I decided, yes, and the thought of an off-brand pumpkin spice latte helped me make this decision easier, although I reckon my Starbucks gold card resented me every second of the way.
Not shortly after I had made it to the cashier and finished my order, I stepped to the side, looked down at my phone, responded to a text, and then it happened.
The manager yelled. "Everybody get down!"
I stopped and thought to myself, "Why, is there a tornado coming our way? Are we about to get blown away by some massive explosive device? What do you know that I don't?" And then I heard it.
Gunshots.
Several, in quick succession, each shot, staccatoed, each break multiplying the fear within everyone listening to this macabre symphony. Unfortunately, it is a symphony that the people of Chicago know all too well, although few attend live performances, and I now know why.
I thought about running, but as I took a cursory view of my surroundings and saw the fear upon the faces of the people with me at that moment, I knew I needed to stay.
As I picked my phone up to call 911, three young black men came bursting into the doors, seconds before the manager yelled for one of her team members to secure our theorized bulwark.
Blood was spurting everywhere, and it was quite clear that these boys had been the theme of the symphony; indeed, it was indubitably clear that they were the victims.
One of the young men had been shot in his leg and wrist, and the other and worst of the lot, in his back.
I figured someone would offer to help. Someone would instruct them to sit or lay down, and provide what help they could, but no one did.
It was then that I realised that if I didn't so something, I would hate myself the rest of my life, and so I acted quickly. I took what clothing I could afford to part with and made make-shift tourniquets. The clothes that they could part with were used for the same. I instructed the young men to lay down and not to move. I applied pressure as much as I could, and for the young man who was clearly in the most pain, I held him. I stayed by his side the entire time, and I began to shake as he told me he couldn't breathe, and then began to yell, "Call my mom, call my people. Where the fuck is the ambulance, yo?" I told his friends to call whoever it is they needed to call as he had requested, and I told him to calm down and breathe slowly and as calmly as possible. I restrained him the best I could, and I just sat there on the floor, engulfed with blood, and thought about my life. I thought about my family, what would come to pass if something were to happen to me. I saw my father looking in at me as he helplessly observed this orchestra's disturbing performance, and I began to feel violently ill. I brought myself back to the situation at hand as the orchestra increased in speed and dynamics.
The young man incessantly begged for an ambulance as 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes passed, until finally, 27 minutes later, the first ambulance arrived, preceded, of course, by the police, who simply looked at me as they began their official inquiry. I looked back, to some extent with great disgust, and elected to simply remain silent, breaking my silence only to reassure this person that everything would be okay. His friends asked me if he was going to be okay and I said, of course, and I, in turn, simply left them to be—though monitoring them to ensure their bleeding didn't worsen.
The manager approached me and gave me instructions from the police. A pastor came and prayed for everyone, but the victims especially, and finally, the paramedics got the victims out and on their way. As I stood up, I looked at the blood everywhere, the food that I ordered perched upon the counter, and finally brought myself to ask two of the officers if it was possible for me to leave, realising now that the conductor had brought this haunting piece of music to an end. But for the first time in my life in the attending of a symphony's performance, I did not applaud.
I exited the store, walked to my dad's car, and I cried, and then I said to my father:
"We think that life is random, but everything I have ever learned up until today, and when I say that, I mean the things that matter, the things that can help save a life, the things that can make all the difference in the world, are not random. Every lesson, skill, and experience has led to this and I now know that God, or the universe, or whatever the hell you want to call it had me in that particular place at this very moment in time for a reason, and for that I am grateful."
And my father said, "Yes, you're right."
And we continued on in silence, but in my head, the symphony performed this day has and continues to haunt me, and it is a piece that shall live in infamy.
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