On the Beat

It is not crime that never rests but the eyes of Justice that are open wide, roving unfailingly over the world, looking for that singular, brief, opportunistic thrust of illegality. I grow tired, I feel cold; the gay lights of a thousand star-spangled trees distract and draw me toward thoughts of my family nestled in at home. But I am a Metropolitan Police Officer and I must be vigilant. These cold nights down in Westlake Plaza, with hundreds of citizens’ last minute shopping and lost in that special euphoria that being so near Christmas induces; these are most dire times indeed. What criminal would hesitate to act on a populace weakened by both the hurried stress and child-like excitement of the year-end holiday? And so I walk among the bundled shoppers and young couples sitting on cold concrete steps sipping hot coffee. To these people I am a faceless presence; shiny black and faded blue, a mass of blocky tools mid-waist and the heavy, malignant gun that everyone quickly glances at. The gun is my badge, more so than the uniform, stern face and gruff demanding voice. It says “I am a weapon in the hands of a man backed by your government. I am a higher authority.” But I am immune from self-delusions and feel a streak of sadness that floods my mind when pedestrians look on with distrust. Distrust in the role not the man, distrust in the system that backs a faithful man. So I shore myself up with being an unknown vigilant soldier of Justice, claiming that thankless task for the unspoken ideals of peace and innocence.

So I wandered, in a looping patrol, varying it by stopping at a street corner, visiting shop owners, even helping those damned funny foreign tourists who actually like to ask us for directions. Sometimes I swear I can feel the beat of this city in the soles of my feet; lethargic yet steady during the day but come night and by the illuminated glow of metal posts the pulse becomes energetic but erratic. My shift, at night, breathes life into me, opens my eyes to the thousands of possibilities that could occur in a congregating humanity.

All these thoughts bounced around as I leaned against the outside wall of Starbucks, enjoying mud-thick black coffee, constantly scanning crowds of people for any oddities. There was a feeling of familiarity to the scene: the last reflected light coming from high office windows dulling into twilight and into further evening when the colorful lights of Christmas stained thousands of faces. It was going to be a routine night.

My attention was caught when a tall, shabbily dressed man stopped under a lit tree and put down a small, brown instrument case. He seemed to be a street performer but he stood and gazed intensely around, like he was taking in the atmosphere, the very essence of all elements gathered in the plaza. Well, precaution being half a cop`s philosophy (the other a intense dislike for out-of-control situations) I strolled over to warn him friendly-like of Seattle`s rules against street performance and panhandling. I got out the warning just before he raised his head and looked me in the eye. “Just one song, please.” That was all he said, but his eyes had a glimmer, a sparkle I couldn`t place, something I hadn`t seen in years of walking these streets. There was a promise in that gaze, of something fantastic to come, of a raw and wondrous creature to appear just out of sensing. “Just one song, but no panhandling,” I told him. Instinct was playing powerfully upon my conscious, it made me relent once- a good-natured boon to the city, or so I told myself.

I returned to my post against the cold cement and watched. The man smiled at me and then stooped and took out a much worn violin. Still he stood, poised, violin cradled and eyes closed, face relaxed. People walking through the square barely glanced at this pondering musician, but unconsciously gave him a wide berth. I saw his eyes open and smile at the small circle of space around him. I found myself holding my breath; aware of the sounds of crowds and traffic, but beyond that a peculiar silence that seemed to encompass the downtown area. The bow then came up to the strings and he began to play.

I am no music lover. I do not enjoy concerts of any kind nor listen to any modern productions. Justice and Peace take up my time and leave little thoughts for artistic comforts. But I judge people, and by their reactions to the music this man truly played his soul. They stopped, turned to look and gathered around to see and hear. I saw the looks of people who had forgotten to hold the walls of their faces and now had wonder and amazement plainly written. They seemed to find some joy in the notes the young man gracefully drew out. The crowd grew; a few homeless struggled up off benches; shoppers came out of the mall to stand still on the second floor balcony. The shifting, arcing music grew louder but, I noticed, there was a steadily growing silence spreading outward, first from the crowd then across the street and around the block. Even the young, cynical men of our god-less generation smiled at the high`s and low`s of the beautiful melody. The small circle of light and space between us and the musician was suddenly filled with white, drifting motes. Snow. And just as suddenly, in my mind, things were pure and things were simple. The beat through my feet told me this: that all my hard and complex reasoning of Justice was just a seeking for an idea of unity; an idea to connect myself, the city and all that lived within. The hand that so passionately stroked the violin was a hand controlled by an individual that felt the same.

He stopped, then, in the middle of a vast silence, surrounded by snow-covered heads and a blanket of snow on the ground. In came the rushing sounds and smells of that great creature, the City. And people seemed to hear it cry, seemed to feel the weight pressing down again, for they started to shift away- some clapping, some crying but all eventually fading away to finish living out the day. It was still snowing and for a brief moment I lost sight of him. But after going over to where he played I saw him bended over, packing up. He had a sad smile, like one who fought and lived through a momentous experience yet sorry to see it fade away in memory. “Just one song?” I said. “Just one song.” And he walked away out of the festive lights, away into the falling snow and embracing darkness.

On the Ferry

The motors start, loud and powerful. It kicks up green foam around the tar-blackened pillars of wood. It’s my favorite moment; the surging forth of the great ship. It’s a short moment where I can stand still and feel the driving shudder travel up my body, see the docks recede slowly and watch the dark waters expand slowly all around. Just for a moment I close my eyes and there is no land only the sea and there is no destination, only the horizon.

But standing across from me is my co-worker Paul, dressed similarly in the same bright green reflecting jacket and making a joke about passengers actually walking off the edge this time. So I snap out of it and being a diligent ferry employee, attend to the tying off of safety lines and completion of all busy work before heading up to mid-deck. I’ve been on the Sahachewan for five years; know the curving lines of its inner belly; the fresh smell of its trademark white and green paint; the feel of the pitted and eroded gunmetal that is her bones. My workplace is the early morning quiet of solitary commuters sitting alone staring out windows dotted with sea-spray. It’s the flow of endless cars passing by, and I, like Moses parting, directing this metal flow to their proper spots. And the sun. At what other job-site can a man be so exposed to the entirety of a beautiful sunrise or a dying, passionate sunset? During my lunch breaks or rare times of “safety patrol” I go to stand on one of the jutting observation decks. In times of sunset I find myself there with a few other solitary souls, watching the dying sun set over the Pugent Sound. There`s a darkness that settles down on the sea then, clouding over the shapes of far-off islands and it even mutes the sharp lines of the restless sea. Only the fiery orange of an illuminated sky and the dripping molten strip of fire in the sea remain.

After quitting time I disembark on Vashon and stand at the pier watching the ferry chug off, growing smaller. I always feel like a passenger then, like it took me somewhere and now I`m back. I`ve got a little cabin down by the water, so close I can hear the waves break in the darkness or in the pre-dawn as I wake. I put on my uniform and bicycle down to work and think, as I do every day, about that first surge away from land and the fresh feel of a boundless ocean and a hint of adventure.