The latest senseless violence spree is happening in Cleveland, Ohio. A “nice guy” has gone on a killing spree selecting random targets. He is claiming fourteen the cops say one. He recorded the killing and posted it on Facebook. Facebook has made it easier for anybody to claim, Andy Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame.
I retired from the Narcotics Task Force eleven years ago. I went from being a member of a unit that rubbed shoulders with a variety of agencies, prosecutors, court denizens, reporters, and hangers-on to obscurity. Where once my daily orbit brought me into contact with any combination of the above; my travels now rarely intersect with anybody from my old life.
It takes two months of planning to get together with some of the old crew. Mark doesn’t want to drive at night; his night vision isn’t what it used to be. Ed has moved so far out into the sticks that he has to pack a lunch just to come into town. Ken is willing. I’ll show up; I just don’t want to coordinate the event. In the meantime, there will be one less at the table this time around; John lost his battle with cancer almost before it began. Time isn’t static.
The last time we got together, was at a Mexican restaurant out on the patio, during happy hour. There was a table full of twenty-something males nearby. They came for the beer; there were several buckets and a whole legion of dead soldiers on the table. They got quiet as we took our seats. The silent assessment, how do they fit, are they a threat? The kiddos decided they were safe and went back to their drinking games. I thought at the time, had this been twelve years earlier chances are they would have gotten a different vibe and been up and calling for the check before we sat down. Gin joints have a limited capacity for apex predators. That’s okay, obscurity is good, we had our day.
How many people are out there, that when they die there is nothing to put in between the date of birth and date of death. People who have no accomplishments or achievements when measured against the expectations that carved only four possible paths for success in their life. Rap artist, professional sports, millionaire, or screwing a Kardashian. The last not being a particularly exclusive club anymore. There is only one way to redeem oneself, and that is to become a “Bad Nigger” as described by Richard Wright in his 1940 novel “Native Son.”
With the advance of technology, it is possible to emulate “Bigger Thomas.” Documenting one’s departure from objective reality; to a rap world where bad is good, murder is empowering, the proceeds from robbery, stealing one’s just due. Culminating in the ultimate defiance shooting it out with the police.
Is this mental illness? A predictable outcome because of the availability of guns? Should we blame LBJ and the “Great Society” for dismantling the black family unit? Ultimately blame lies with Steve Stephens. Police-say-a-man-killed-someone-while-streaming-on-facebook?