Death of a Stranger

My job necessitated a move cross country to Los Angeles. To say living here has been an adjustment would be an understatement. Its way too crowded. The traffic is bad, the crime is out of control, and the people are rude as hell; that’s just a few of the problems.
 
My sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of the big city has been my apartment complex. Now, it’s not a beautiful place by any stretch of the imagination; it’s basically a twelve unit complex that looks like an old Motel 6, and my apartment is a one bedroom cracker box with no room for anything more than a love seat and a television.

No, the reason has been the friendliness of the tenants. It reminds me of the hospitality I was accustomed to in Nashville, Tennessee.

The complex is represented by many nationalities, sexual preferences and creeds. Where I came from, it just wasn’t common to see Blacks, Whites, Hispanics and Asians all living together in racial harmony. It’s kind of nice to see the camaraderie that goes on each and every day.

After sitting in the notoriously jumbled 405 freeway traffic everyday, I look forward to walking through that wrought iron gate to my sanctuary. As soon as I step through it, the stress of Los Angeles just melts away. I even talk to my neighbors, say hello and see how they're doing. It’s been my own little Utopia.

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I finally get situated on the sofa, ready to turn the television on, when I hear a faint scream that sends chills up my spine, yet causes intense curiosity. I slowly lift a corner of the blinds on the window behind me to peek outside. I don’t see Michael Myers, but I do see what appears to be a body lying motionless on the concrete, inside the apartment complex gate.

“What the hell is that?” I ask aloud. I finally pry my face from the window and force my feet to move towards the door. My brain tells me I have to take a closer look.

It’s a black guy, mid-forties or older due to the abundance of gray in his hair, lying on his stomach with his left cheek looking up at me. He’s wearing a thick green Army jacket, tattered blue jeans and flip-flops. It looks like someone posed him on the concrete with his left arm over his head and right arm beside his body. Blood from his mouth is pooled on the concrete.

One thing that draws my attention is this immense diamond earring that looks like something an NBA player would wear. I might not be used to this sort of thing, but even I know it just doesn't fit with his indigent ensemble.

I shout, “Hey buddy, are you okay?” No response. I place a finger on the dead man’s throat, where a pulse should be. His flesh is still warm, like someone just pulled a blanket off him.

An eerie feeling that I'm being watched causes me to shiver when all of a sudden a door slams and startles me. I turn around to see one of my neighbors Betty walking towards me with a cordless phone to her ear. The man is laid out damn near in front of her apartment; I wonder what took her so long.

Calmly, the sun-dried old lady says into the phone, “Umm…yes…someone’s been murdered at 1261 Appleton St.”

I look back at the body to see what obvious clue I could have missed. How did she know he was murdered? Did she know what happened? Did she see what happened? Maybe she did it!

She ends the call and turns her attention towards me. “Hey Ronnie, how are you?”

“Hey.” I've never been this close to a dead body before, so I cannot act as calm as Betty is acting.

“Do you know him?” In my attempt to play cool I can feel my voice cracking.

“No, I’ve never seen him before.” She says while walking back to her stoop.

“How do you know this guy was murdered?” I fire back.

“I don’t know, just figured I guess.”

My questioning gets interrupted by her next door neighbor, Anthony stepping out of his door.

“Hey guys, what’s up?” His cheery demeanor infiltrates my brain like nails on a chalkboard.

“What’s wrong with him?” His bright beady eyes are focused directly at me.

“I think he’s dead.” The words echo in my brain; it finally hits me that I’m standing beside a dead body.

“Oh man, that sucks,” Anthony hangs his head and mumbles.

With his next breath he snaps back into happy mode, “Well do you guys need anything? If not, I'm going back to my couch to catch a nap ‘cause I just got home a few minutes ago.”

The way his demeanor changes so quickly sets my Columbo Meter buzzing, “Wait a minute - how did you not see this guy if you just got here? I heard this dude scream about five minutes ago.” My interrogative stare is attempting to burn a hole through him.

He catches his door before it closes, sticks his head out the small opening, “What the hell are you talking about Ronnie?”

“I’m wondering how you didn’t see him lying on the ground. That’s what I am talking about Anthony.” I make sure to emphasize his name like they do when interrogating someone on Law and Order.

“Why you givin’ me a hard time? ‘Cause I’m black or ‘cause I’m gay?”

I let out a nervous little laugh because that’s scary territory to venture into. “Are you kidding?”

Anthony walks out onto his front stoop while Betty is walking towards him. “Don’t think we ain’t noticed them racist tattoos all over your arms.” He’s waving his arms like a wild banshee in my direction and Betty is shaking her head in agreement.

“They’re biker tattoos, not racist tattoos, you idiots. I just asked you a simple question and you get all defensive.” My anger is starting to warm my face; I take a few steps towards Anthony and Betty. “Why can’t you answer it?”


“Hey…I just called the cops,” someone shouts from above us. We all three look up. It’s Billy from apartment 6 and he’s looking down with his flabby, pasty white skin hanging over the rail.

“We already called the cops dude,” I holler back.

“What’s going on down there?” He doesn’t even give anyone a chance to respond before he fires back, “why is there a dead junky lying there?”

Anthony fires back at him “shut up hillbilly.” Billy just gives him a one finger salute and laughs.

I wonder if Marcus has something to do with it,” Billy hangs over the rail and shouts. Marcus is my neighbor in apartment 3. He has a shaved head and one other slight problem - he's black. If you combine the two, he will obviously be blamed by ignorant people such as Billy.

About fifteen minutes have passed since the stranger interrupted my typical night. Now, almost the entire complex is outside, either downstairs where the body is lying, or up on the second floor at the railing. The climate is very accusatory. Everyone suspects everyone of either being the perpetrator or knowing who did it. It is odd how everyone’s mood towards their neighbors changed. The facades melted away within a matter of minutes and people’s true feelings towards each other replaced the usual friendliness.
   
Billy is essentially accusing anyone of color, which pisses them off and has them accusing the white guys (which consists of me and Billy) of killing him because he’s black.

While Billy is doing his impersonation of David Duke, his poor girlfriend, Jennifer, is apologizing to anyone who will listen for her boyfriend’s actions.

Anthony and Betty are continuing to trash me. “What’s your problem with me, homo?” He just gives me an implike grin, blows me a kiss, and continues slandering me.
   
I’m so angry at this guy for ruining my sanctuary -- if it was possible, I’d kill him again. The bickering has been going on for what seems like eternity, time is standing still so we can finish humiliating ourselves and our neighbors. I would like to know who dumped our stranger here so I will know who to hate. I decide I have to do some investigating on my own - in my mind of course.

How come Anthony hadn’t found the body if he got home a few minutes before I found the guy...
How come Betty boldly stated to the cops that he was murdered…
Did she know what happened…
Maybe she is protecting Anthony…
Where was Marcus…
Could Billy have been correct when he was accusing him…
Why are none of them freaking out like me…

None of them are acting like they give a damn. Maybe it’s a California thing, but I’m just not used to seeing dead bodies. My mind continues to jump from being a detective to an angry malcontent that wants to beat this killer to death with my bare hands.
 
Everyone is so busy interrogating their neighbors; they don't even realize the flashing red lights interrupting the early nighttime sky. The ambulance has arrived. Two paramedics in blue jumpsuits walk through the gate, one is carrying a board and the other is carrying a red duffle bag. This halts the hateful rhetoric being tossed back and forth. The guy with the bag drops to his knees beside the body and the other sets his board down to get to work. They are totally oblivious to the attentive stares hanging on their every move.
 
Now, blue lights meld with the red lights from the ambulance, which can only mean the cops are finally here. Now we will get to the bottom of this. They will call CSI and find out what happened; the perpetrator will be arrested and we can all go back to some sense of normalcy. Even though I know the damage we’ve done today will never be undone.

In walks an older man, with a doughnut filled physique, wearing a wrinkled blue police uniform. He has a look of disinterest on his face.  He briefly looks around the complex, leans down and starts talking to the paramedics.
   
The paramedics place our nameless companion on the plastic board, cover his body with the white sheet and walk him out of the complex. The police officer follows them out of the gate. A cryptic silence is hanging in the air, mixing with a tension so thick I can taste it.
 

Finally after about ten minutes of an uncomfortable silence, the police officer walks back through the gate.

“So does anyone happen to know why he was in here?” Nobody answers. “I will need to take statements from ya’ of course,” he shouts.

He pauses...nobody responds. All eyes are busy focusing on the cracks in the concrete.

“Well it don’t matter no way.The paramedics are telling me it looks like the poor guy dropped dead of a heart attack.That just means more goddamn paperwork for me,” he says with disgust. He turns and walks back outside and shuts the gate behind him.


An excruciating minute passes before Betty finally breaks our self-imposed silence, “Anthony, do you want some dinner? I have some veal left over.”

“Definitely,” he replies.

“Hey guys, we’re grilling at the park on Saturday,” Billy says while walking down the stairs.

“You guys are welcome to come,” his girlfriend Jennifer says.

What! What the hell is going on! No more than ten minutes ago, we were trying to tear each other’s throats out. The friendly facades that were melted away so quickly have been rebuilt even faster.

The shortness of their memories leaves me speechless and furious. We were all just slandering each other and now they are moving on with their lives like nothing ever happened. What kind of bizarre world am I living in? Where’s the Twilight Zone music? Damn, I miss Nashville.