I returned from a weekend in Michigan to a standoff between police and protesters, each group facing the other across the expanse of intersection on which my building is positioned. My dilemma was that I needed to cross that particular intersection in order to reach my front door, while transporting two dogs, a brief case, and a bag of clean, folded laundry with the words “Contain Yourself” emblazoned in pink on the side of the bag. Needless to say, my amble across the street had me feeling a tad self-conscious, crossing as I was between the line of police on one side and the protesters on the other, wondering what the fuck was going on.
Once inside my building, I secured the dogs and bags in the condo and scrambled back down to the street to see what I could see. There was a lady standing near the street-level door to my building but she had not a clue what this particular confrontation concerned, nor did her boyfriend. They, like me, were there to enjoy the show, not take part in it. Soon enough, however, the protesters begrudgingly disbanded, apparently having figured out they would not be allowed access to the part of 12th street to which they were originally headed. Other than the shouting they seemed peaceful enough and I, for one, did not note any vandalism on my corner, though it was quite possible they had already spent their destructive energy on other storefronts in other parts of the city. If that was the case, I ‘m sure those mean storefront windows got what they deserved. It’s also possible a group of anarchists had glommed onto the group of peaceful protesters as a means of hiding from the police. This was the third night of the protests after all, and there had, indeed, been violence the prior two evenings, so one never knows.
At the moment it was still daylight and the curfew wouldn’t begin for a couple hours, so I took advantage of the lull in hostilities to walk three blocks to my old dwelling on Main St. In the foyer of that building there waited for me eight bottles of wine. I had ordered them from a liquor store in Illinois, the Liquor Barn. To the best of my knowledge I had never ordered liquor from the Liquor Barn, so I naturally felt it odd they would have my old address on file, or any address at all, for that matter. (I’m not saying it was not possible that I had previously ordered wares from the Liquor Barn, I’m just saying I don’t remember doing so.) Regardless, I was happy to make the hike after having been stuck in my car for the last four hours. Plus, it gave me the opportunity to talk to my old neighbor who, with his wife, had taken part in the protest in front of the local police station two nights prior. Having had such an up-close-and-personal experience, I figured his insight into the what-fors and whose-its of the demonstrations would be invaluable. After all, local color is important, especially when your protest is an outcropping of something that happened hundreds of miles away.
I found the short walk over boringly uneventful, and arrived unscathed to find my former building-mate standing guard over a Fedex box full of wine that I could not find in Cincinnati. With the understanding that my old neighbor is a bit of a wino, I took a moment to not-too-obviously count the bottles, fearing his desire for mid-grade Rioja may have overcome his sense of gentlemanly virtue. The count complete, we fell into easy conversation.
“So has it been crazy this weekend?”
“Yeah, definitely. Pretty quiet today, though.” He hadn’t seemed to notice me counting the bottles.
“Have you guys camped in? You know, to sort of stay out of the fray?” He and his wife lived on the fifth floor of the building, well out of range of the rock throwing ability of the average not-so-peaceful protester.
“Not really. Like I mentioned on the phone, we checked out the protest at District One (the closest police station to where we were standing) and the demonstration in Washington Park. It was pretty interesting.” He spoke of these activities as if they happened every weekend, like an open-air concert or pub crawl. Of course, with the corona virus lock down having just recently been lifted, these were the most exciting things to happen in Over-the-Rhine in months.
“How were they?” Having never taken part in a group demonstration, I really was interested. Historically, all my protests were singular in nature, and every one an abject failure.
“Washington Park was cool. Everybody was chill. But the police got a little rough at District One, especially after the demonstrators started throwing rocks at them. We ended up in a cloud of tear gas. Got pushed around a little.”
“Hmmm…Were you wearing your corona virus mask? Would that have helped with the tear gas?” I was only half-kidding. Virus masks are good for hiding all manner of sins.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t cover your eyes. It’s called tear gas, not drool gas.” He was being funny, but I had been purposely exposed to tear gas thrice in my Navy years, and that experience taught me it could just as easily be called drool gas. Or snot gas. Both were normal by-products of exposure.
“Hmmm… Well, I’m sorry you guys got gassed. Maybe you can order gas masks before you attend the next protest?”
“Well, maybe. Although I think I’d feel a little silly walking around in a gas mask. Seems like you’re just asking for it.”
“Agreed.”
After thanking him again for securing the errant wine in my absence, I carried it back to where it belonged, making sure to avoid the more-travelled thoroughfares. I wasn’t in the mood to get into a fight over wine with a thirsty rabble-rouser, at least not while I was sober, and had a theory that the vast majority of the demonstrators knew nothing of the geography of downtown Cincinnati, and would therefore be concentrated on the larger avenues. The theory would be proven anecdotally when, the next day, I was asked by would-be protestors for directions to the main court house, to which they were going to demand justice for the poor soul who was murdered in Minnesota. I gave them accurate directions, and chose not to pester them about how one might find justice in Cincinnati for something that happened in Minneapolis, no matter how disgusting that thing might be. I mean, at least they were trying to do something.
That evening after curfew, glass of wine in one hand and cigar in the other, I spent a good hour on the fire escape watching nitwits drive through my neighborhood, honking their horns, running red lights, and hanging out the windows of their cars, ostensibly all in the name of solidarity with the real protesters from earlier in the day. But whoever was in those cars was not interested in justice for anyone, their only desire to be as obnoxious as possible, their only protest being against anyone in the neighborhood trying to get some sleep. It made me angry, so I handled the situation crotchety-old-man style, flipping the bird and occasionally yelling down from my perch above the sidewalk, all to no effect beyond letting morons know I think they’re morons. It was fun, but I hoped none of us would ever have a reason to do it ever again.
