A few years ago, while I was living smack in the middle of Hollywood, I came home from work for a brief bite of something before rushing off again. I probably changed my clothes, since working with coffee all day tends to permeate everything with its blackened aroma and I know I watched a little TV. During the limited time, that brief half hour lapse, someone or something was shanked, stabbed or seriously maimed right underneath my living room window. I did not realize this however, till I went to leave and found a rather large pool of fresh, sticky blood soaking into the sidewalk. I didn’t hear a scuffle, a yell, a shriek, or even a murmur. Nothing.
And as shocking as it was to emerge from my idyllic apartment and stumble into a potential crime scene, having already been properly jaded by city life, I tiptoed my way around the blood stained sidewalk & wearily peered into the bushes for a corpse. I made to my car and drove off. I called my sister to warn her about the biohazard at the foot of our stairs and that was it.
I did wonder how someone could lose that much blood so quietly and vanish into the summer night even more stealthily. Yet it wasn’t until months later, when the great blood stain was brought up during a conversation with our downstairs neighbor, that I realized that maybe I should get out of the city for a bit. Apparently, he had recently been regaling his sister back in Wisconsin with hard-edged LA stories and had mentioned the giant puddle of blood. “What did the police say?” she had shrieked and I looked at my neighbor knowingly. Cause he knew what I knew and that was, that neither of us had bothered to call the police. In fact, it hadn’t even occurred to us. For we were city dwellers, in one of the biggest centers of urbanity on the planet and well, people bled everyday down here.