Fiction: Mistaken identity

26 April 2014 /

Sitting on a step that lowers the plaza to the sidewalk, I watch. It’s a bright day and everyone’s squinting—myself included. Passerby’s all seem to be in a similar mood, calm and relaxed, glad it’s a warm and pleasant day—the end of a nasty bipolar winter. I’m in a relaxed state myself. Confident in my thoughts and actions, happy with the unfamiliar company around me. I’m taking photos, of whatever seems even remotely interesting: the legs of the crowd, the upward shot of peoples bewildered yet complacent faces; double exposure… hoping for some interesting results. I stand up, stretch, and with an eager gaze search the horizon for the next kodak moment. Cars screech past, horns honk, a low murmur emanates from the crowd of people out on this warm day. Then I see it. The perfect composition. Something unusual juxtaposed on the landscape of tall buildings and large cars—one of those one-man police car/tricycle/motorcycle mixes that look like a clown car. Unbefitting of the NYPD. A vehicle that does not command respect nor confidence. Notions aside, I had to capture this unorthodox scene. I step out into the street, hesitate, reconsider, then stride into position ten feet away. Focus, focus, twist, focus, damn! Focus… snap! Got it. Not more than a second after that snap, another… “HEY, DIDN’T I JUST WARN YOOUU?!” Bellowed the irritated, poked, and prodded beast inside. I think… look behind me, no one… it’s me who’s being yelled at? I feign confusion and stumble away, pretending to be unaffected. Taking a leap that I equate to that of a gazelle’s, I clear the street to the curb, striding away from the scene of the shooting. A mistaken culprit, but still a culprit, I merge into the crowd, one of many—one of many noticed, and soon forgotten.