Riot, n. A popular entertainment given to the military by innocent bystanders
– Ambrose Bierce
ON THE SECOND night of Rodney King Week, Eddie, Beth, and I left Tim's apartment on Fillmore Street and hung a prompt left onto Hayes. We were headed downtown. Eddie packed Beth on his rebuilt green '74 CB 750 K Honda. I rode one-up on my primered and duct-taped '77 BMW R100/7. Eddie and Beth wore full-face skid lids, black clothes and gloves. I wore a white cop-like brain bucket that left my ears and face exposed. I always dress black, in Belstaff, Ben Davis, and high-top engineers. Cops do not. None of us looked like cops. No way. Not even remotely.
I do look white. I can't help it. I am white. I can't help that either. It was luck of the draw. Had I been offered the choice, I'd have been an "Eskimo". At least they have some sense, unlike the rest of us (or so I hear, at least). But I wasn't. I'm a "honkey," get used to it. I did. That don't make me a racist. It sure as hell don't make me a cop. It particularly sure as hell don't make me one of the cops who beat on Rodney King. Sometimes it's a disadvantage, being white, though never in court. In court it pays off big time. Court works like this: (1.) Be white. (2.) Spend money. The street works different. On the street, the way I figure it: black sheep, white sheep, ain't no difference; they all smell bad when it rains.
Eddie and Beth were showing no skin. They could have been anything, even Inuit, but not cops. The street lights were out. So were the lights around the projects. We accelerated into the dark. A guy nailed me in the head with a bottle from what, judging from the angle of incidence, must have been the top of the nearest project. I was wearing the lid.It was the cop's idea, not mine. Otherwise, I'd have died on the spot. The bottle must have been full. It cratered my lid; it would have cratered my head. Any guy that can hit a one foot square target, moving 35 mph., in the dark, from five stories up, with a bottle, doesn't have to live in the projects; he can pitch for the majors, and live in a mansion. But nooooooooooo . . .
I slammed on both brakes and got fairly sideways, in my haste to congratulate him on the excellency of his aim and to offer a few pointers on what he could do with his life next. A quick terrain scan, in which I naturally engaged while decelerating, dissuaded me. I didn't stand a chance. So I goosed it and burned rubber, retreating in good order. It was the prudent tack. I caught up with Eddie and Beth, who, deafened and blinded by their legislated head-cages, were wholly oblivious to the entire incident.
"Holy shit! Look at that dent in your helmet!!!" said Eddie, just like I hadn't already noticed. I got the shakes later, once it was safe. Beth called Tim to warn him. Tim rides. He rides that block. He rides that block a lot. You're supposed to warn your friends when hunting season has opened. Should the occasion and the opportunity arise, warn me. I'll owe you one. You'd like that.
A couple days later Eddie, Beth, and I left Bound Together Books well before dusk, and headed down Haight Street. This time I packed Beth. Eddie rode one-up. The plan was to split up at Valencia. Beth and I would proceed to their place. Eddie would cop some take out chow fun. We'd meet up and chow down. It sounded like fun.
Instead, unbeknownst to Beth and I, Eddie hung an impulsive right on Webster, at the top of the hill. Seconds later, before I had noticed his absence in my rearview, Beth and I were mobbed by a gang of 12-14 year olds out in front of the projects. Eddie never saw it happen. How many of them were strapped? Hey, I dunno, maybe none. You wanna know? You find out. They ran straight at us, fanned out in a half circle in front of us and to the left. There were about a dozen and a half of them. I was doing maybe 30 m.p.h. when they rushed us. As I cleared the nearest one he nailed Beth with an egg, from three feet away. It was the second time in a week she'd been egged on that block while riding on the back of a scooter. The first time, it hadn't been from so close up and she and Eddie had merely scooted away. When you're on two wheels, escape is a wrist twist away. This is unless the path's blocked, which happens sometimes, all too often, in my humble opinion. But then I'm a bit biased. Two wheels good. Four wheels bad. Got it?
This egg shit was starting to wear a little thin, too. OK, egg throwing is rude, but, hey, I was a kid once too. I too threw eggs at passing grownups, though never from so close, and certainly never at bikers. It does not rate the death penalty. In a way, I gotta admire the kid. He showed a lot of damn heart. He truly was taking his life in his hands, not at all like that chickenshit asshole who bounced the bottle off my head from an out of reach shadow. That guy was way outa line.
I didn't have time (or, frankly, the inclination) to compliment the kid or to offer any sage, avuncular advice as to what else he could do with his huevos. I had to get my ass off the block pronto, and that's just how it was. Beth's too. I love Beth. She'd look bad as a pizza. That's what happens when you get knocked off a bike. Pizza. Not pretty, no fun. And that's if nobody stomps you right afterwards. It looked to me like road rash was going to be the least of our impending problems. I veered straight into the thickest knot of them, yelling like a beserker, and opened up wide. My Beemer's a rat, but a bat outa hell. It gets up and goes like it wants to be gone. The Bings sucked a big gulp; the tacho near red lined. We burned tread and charged them. It worked like hell. Not much else would have. A U-turn could have gotten us killed. It was the last thing they ever expected. It took them totally by surprise. They scattered. We tucked in and skedaddled, eyeing their futile pursuit in the rear view. We were sighing with relief, when . . .
. . . we noticed that Eddie wasn't behind us anymore. By this time we had crossed Market St. and were still smokin' as we fishtailed a left at Kentucky Fried Chicken. I ran the light at Zeitgeist and Valencia (don't try this at home, kids), and banged an illegal right the wrong way up Woodward Alley (likewise, kids), not on the alley itself, but the sidewalk, slaloming between junkies and winos through a minefield of inanimate detritus, and came to a screeching halt in front of Beth's door.
"Get off," I yelled, "I'm going back for him."
Please understand that I never really intended to shoot anyone, particularly children. There's no way to kill children and come out of it looking good. I had an exhaust header flange wrench in my saddle bag. It's about a cubit long. Nothing else will get the damn flange off in one piece. It also makes a jim-dandy head-hitter. You really don't want to be the head. It looks cool, too, kinda like a flower drawn by Miro. I grabbed it from outa the bag and stuck it through the belt of my Belstaff jacket.
"Don't! You'll be killed!" intoned Beth, just like I hadn't already thought of this.
"If I don't, he'll be killed!" I countered.
She'd already thought of that, too. The battle was on.
"I'm coming with you!"
"Oh no you're not!"
"Oh yes I am!"
"No you're not!"
"Yes I am!"
"No you're not! No you're not! No you're not!"
"Yes I am! Yes I am! Yes I am!"
Beth and I really know how to argue. We put lawyers to shame. Lawyers ain't shit in an argument. Having that referee all the time makes them soft. You should hear us go at it. We blow their ass outa the water. We rank; no lie; they're toast. Eat dust, counselors.
Once past the somewhat formal opening (the ever popular Fool's Gambit), Beth and I settled down into some serious, get down, mid-game conflict. We got intricate. We got complex. We got complicated. So did our quandary. If only a tape had been rolling.
Eddie, meanwhile, is standing in front of a steam table, counting his change and salivating, happy as a clam. Eddie is this guy who'd rather be soldering bread boards. He builds Tesla coils and plasma generators and is convinced that the conductivity of an ionized column of air can be developed as the business end of a short range, personal defense weapon, a "stunner" if you will. These days he's teaching himself BASIC on a TI-99/4A he scrounged out of a dumpster. Why, I'm not sure. We once collaborated with Tim on an article in the Guardian on how to "liberate" cable TV. He's pretty bright for a guy on a Honda. Plus, he's a really nice guy. He'd look bad on a pizza, too. I couldn't leave him back there. Like I said, Beth is an ex. That's not what makes Eddie her current. She's clearly better off with him than us, happier too. I want Beth to be happy. Also, this way I get to borrow yet another guy's tools when I need them.
Oh for a tape. Beth and I really know how to do it. The dialogue must have been truly choice. We know each other really, really well, better than most. The two of us didn't get out of bed for a year once, didn't even blink until February. Late February. (Well, actually there were three of us, but that's another story.) Suffice to say we're telepaths; imagine the rest. We argued four months once, pausing to inhale only on Tuesdays. I tell you, my friends, if you wanna learn how to debate, forget law school; sleep with Jews. Two at a time is best. When you get so you can hold your own with both of 'em at the same time, you can spar with me and not need a handicap.
Eddie bungeed the chow fun and kicked his start over. Visions of chopsticks danced in his head. Mmmmmmmmmm. Mmmmm. Mmmm. Yum-m-m chow. Eddie likes to eat.
Beth and I were screaming at each other. We flailed our arms and leapt about. The junkies and winos were terribly amused. This is not our usual style. Our wont is to cite copious references and pick at each others definitions while being refereed by a Ph.D., with an atlas and a Britannica in her hand. Better still, was when Beth would referee, and Dr. Sue and I would go at it with intermittent histrionics and deep, sweeping passion. Beth's a really good ref. She saved our relationship a couple times a week. Once Beth left, our marriage was doomed. It was probably doomed anyway. At least we weren't married. Beth and I didn't have any referee on Woodward that day, just junkies and winos. Like they say in poker, "No help."
Meanwhile civil conflict had erupted in 52 separate cities. Even Ames, Iowa rebelled. Towns don't get much whiter than Ames. I remember the announcer describing the scene on CNN Headline News. It was two in the morning. The night shift was running the mix board. The story got spiked when the day shift showed up, a not uncommon occurrence. A couple of hundred white kids were chasing a hundred or so white cops down the screen as fast as their legs could carry them. The cops were fleeing at a dead heat sprint. "Racial unrest" he called it.
Even Pinole rebelled, for chrissake! Berkeley, one expects to rebel. But neighboring Pinole!?! Even Pinole rebelled. Asian and white, upper middle class Pinole High kids shut down Route 80 for hours. The day before, protestors from Berkeley and Oakland had shut down the Bay Bridge. Unrest is contagious. People get caught up in it. So don't blame me and Beth for getting caught up in the spirit of the time. We had plenty of company. We each took both sides, both alternately and simultaneously, of every angle on the situation we could possibly come up with. The possibilities were numerous, complicated, complex, and intricate, not to mention perplexing:
Eddie was safe and on his way home with dinner. Eddie was already dead. Eddie was surrounded, but holding them off and tiring quickly, badly in need of help. We could rescue him. We could fail to rescue him. We could try to rescue him and fail anyway. We could get killed trying to rescue him. We could get killed actually rescuing him. We could show up to rescue him the very moment he showed up at home with dinner, get ourselves killed for nothing and then get him killed when he came back to investigate why we hadn't shown up for dinner. I could go back alone and she could wait for him to show up and they both could come rescue me 'cuz I'd probably need it by then. They could both get killed rescuing me. They could both get killed failing to rescue me, try though they might. We could both wait for Eddie to show up with the chow, and then watch America burn on TV.
Etc.
Blah, blah, blah.
Beth's a liberal, deep down in her heart. This she denies, of course, vehemently and articulately. She volunteers. She really believes in reform. She was just as mad at the "System" as she was frightened for Eddie. The "System" had victimized her, not the kid with the egg. This is only partially true. She likes to go into great detail. I, on the other hand, wanna go teach the kid some damn manners. And, oh yes, rescue Eddie. We're both long winded and facile of tongue. Imagine the rest.
Blah, blah, blah.
Etc.
Meanwhile, Eddie's a block away waiting out a red light in front of the Valencia Gardens projects. He was sitting on the spot where a while back, Cid's and Dan's roommate John had been attacked. The attackers had run out of the shadows straight at him as he left the bike bar just across the next intersection. He had braked hard and got sideways. Unable to stay upright and still stop in time to avoid hitting what he thought were merely pedestrians, he had laid the bike down instead. Sometimes you just gotta lay it down and that's that. It's one of those moves you should know how and be willing to do, or else you shouldn't be out on two wheels, because if you are, sooner or latter you will die. You will die, sliding, trying to keep it up, as the hot mouth of doom sucks you in. Sometimes doom gags; others, doom don't. The maneuver does require a certain degree of optimism, though, in order to execute with elan.
John came out of his slide OK, but before he could get up they started to stomp him. He got away long enough to run to the corner store yelling, "Call the cops! Call the cops!" Surprisingly enough, the cops were somewhere else, probably eating donuts, or collecting protection money. The store owners slammed the door in his face. He got stomped pretty bad. That's what life's like around there. Get used to it. There sat Eddie, waiting for green. Was he thinking about danger? No way. He's thinking about fun. Chow fun. Mmmmm yum.
Meanwhile, two blocks away, Beth and I were panting and hoarse. By the time we finally shut up and actually did something, we were both pretty worked up, a danger to ourselves and others. Also, enough time had passed that Eddie would, in all likelihood, have already died (or come back with dinner, which ever came first). This kind of shit is fairly unnerving, especially for civilians. Civilians the world over, tend to respond to situations that demand quick, calm, decisive action by hopping up and down and screeching. It's our evolutionary heritage, come home to roost. Eventually, Beth grabbed a chunk of pipe and we started back together. I think this means she won. We made it ten feet. Eddie pulled up with dinner. It's just as well. Days later it briefly occurred to me to that I maybe should go reason with the little fucker. When it did, Beth saved me the trouble (and then some). For a while I was going to try to recruit him. She talked me out of it.
"Oh, yeah, who sounds like a liberal now!?!" she said. It's just as well. I would have just gotten myself in some kind of trouble or something.
A couple days later, I ran into Eddie and Beth in Dolores Park where a pretty big rally was in progress, protesting the previous week's illegal, preemptive street sweep at 24th and Mission (a set up). The protesters had been suckered into position by a leaflet and then surrounded and swept up while legally assembled. It had been nasty. A lot of neighborhood folks had become unwittingly ensnared. Commuters just getting off BART were busted. Some got slapped around. A Latina mother had been caught up and carted off while in the bodega downstairs in the building she lived in. She had run down stairs for some last minute ingredients while she was making dinner. Her kids had been trapped upstairs alone with the stove on. People were extremely pissed off.
The rally in Dolores Park was the one where 1,500 people were later suckered into a trap on Market Street, surounded and busted. Suckers are common in this town, more common even than leaflets. Twice in one week is inexcusable suckerdom. Beth, Eddie and I opted out. Suckers, we aint. We withdrew to La Alteña (at Mission and 22nd) for my favorite burrito deal and then circled around the crowd which by then was encircled and trapped on Market Street. We joined the smaller crowd just outside the police lines. There weren't enough of us to break through and rescue the hapless suckers. We were chanting, "Big sticks, little dicks; big sticks, little dicks," when the police line nearest us lost it, broke ranks, wheeled and charged, flailing batons. That kinda shit gets to 'em. Hmmmm. I wonder why.
The SFPD has been a fairly undisciplined lot from the very beginning. It's traditional. This has given rise to a number of derivative traditions. In keeping with one of them, I sprinted to my still warm motor and burned rubber, and not a moment too soon. I remember thinking, as I sprinted away, that I sure hoped the damn thing would start. Riding Triumphs did that to me. I still don't trust motors to start. Now I have a BMW. It started (phew!) and I retreated in good order. I remember thinking as I blasted off down Market Street, watching their futile pursuit recede in my rearview, that this shit was starting to wear a little thin. Wouldn't it be nice if something else happened in my life for a change? Eddie and Beth were trapped but managed to ooze out of it through a conveniently located rent in the space-time continuum (which shall remain occult in case it's ever needed again).
We got us a problem here, for sure. Forget Bosnia for a moment. Imagine a Californian civil war in the former United States.
Yog!
As the uprising began, a white truck driver named Reginald Denny was mobbed by black thugs and beaten severely. A news helicopter was directly overhead, so the world saw it happen. I feel, on the whole, that he should have at least tried to shoot his way out of it. He definitely should have been prepared. He wasn't. He set a very bad example. It bore bitter fruit. His black rescuers are much more the sort of people I'd prefer to be sharing a planet with. Though equally unprepared, they rose to the occasion, and saved his ass at great personal risk. They claimed later that they did it because they were Christians. Serious history buffs can't help being skeptical of reports of Christian altruism. Historically, Christians are best known for committing mass murder, rape and rapine. I doubt if that's what Jesus had in mind. If Jesus ever tells you to save my ass outa some jam like that, I say go for it. I don't care if you're purple. Frankly, I don't much care who told you, either.
A great deal of the blame for subsequent events is the TV helicopter pilot's. He knew the cops had run away. He could see them do it. He had the catbird seat. When the cops cop out when they're needed, which is usually (Hey, why do you think they call it "cop out?"), the task and duty of mutual defense devolves on the nearest capable citizen. That pilot was it. All he had to do was flick on his hailer and incant the ancient, mystic binding spell, "Freeze motherfucker!" and the whole wretched scenario would have ground to a screeching halt. If that didn't work, he could have lopped a few heads with his rotor. That would have definitely stopped the party cold. But noooooooooo . . . He wanted footage. So he egged them on with the damn camera. Everyone hams it up for a camera. How much a foot he was paid, one must wonder. Or maybe the money never crossed his mind. Maybe he was just to chickenshit to get close enough to maybe get shot at. Either way, he was disfeasant in his citizenship.
Then there are the editors. A serious, and somewhat successful, effort was effected by the spin doctors who manage our news, to transform perception of the wide spread, anti-police rioting into a few isolated racial conflicts. They spiked most of the reports from around the country and instead, showed us the same few clips, from the same few cities, over and over. They told us again and again that these were representative. They called it the "L. A. riot," not "52 simultaneous separate uprisings."
Heavy emphasis was placed on the supposed black/Korean animosity. In fact, the few isolated incidents of black/Korean violence in a single neighborhood, in a single city, were in no way representative of the melange of incidents that added up to the week of nationwide unrest. In any event, it was not "Koreans" who were attacked; it was Korean-American shopkeepers. For my money, that's more class war than racism. But the lords of the media invested a great many hours, and a whole lot of helicopter fuel in convincing people that what was really going on was a race riot. Most viewers, sheep that they are, believed it. Some took what they deemed to be appropriate action. One tried to kill me. Most people will do anything the TV tells them to do. They trust it because it lives in their homes, so it must be a member of the family. If you can't trust the members of your own family, who can you trust? Nobody, that's who. Fuck trust, I say. You're better off with cancer. Doubt everything and everyone. You'll live longer. Trust me on this. I did the field research.
There are powerful, well organized, well funded forces, at work in America who would like nothing better than to spark a race war here. They have friends in high places. Trust them last. Another theory is that race war is going on already. It's just low intensity warfare, that's all. What they want is to crank it up. Either way the outcome looks bad for most participants and a goodly number of bystanders. What we must ask ourselves is for whom does the advent of race war look good? Who benefits when we turn on each other and not on them? Opinions vary, but who ever it is, it aint us, and that's a fact of life.
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Some names were changed – Editor.
