a hot summer Friday night in late August and folks just want to go home. Even if it’s just to a sweltering hot box of a home, drinking beer and watching Make That Spare . Would sure beat sitting here on Columbia Avenue behind a car that won’t fuckin’ move.
Eventually, somebody calls the cops.
Word gets to the Twenty-Second. Two patrolmen show up—a salt-and-pepper set. You see a lot of black-and-white duos around the Jungle these days. The idea is that the civilians, no matter their skin color, will have someone to relate to at all times.
But the truth is, blacks trust white cops more. And conventional wisdom around the department is that you never send two black cops out in a squad car—because it would be like sending out no car at all.
White cop tries to talk to the couple. The couple ignore him, keep on fighting. The wife has her feet locked on those damn pedals. No way is she moving. Uh-uh.
Cars honk. The sound echoes off the two- and three-story buildings like in a canyon.
Come on!
Black cop finally says, hell with this. He reaches in and pulls the woman out from behind the wheel. It’s a hot summer evening; people need to get home.
But this is the Jungle, and it is the summer of 1964, and the fury has been simmering all summer. It’s gonna reach full boil at some point—everybody can feel it.
White cop hops in, steers the car off the road so people can finally pass. He steps out of the car, slams the door shut, prepares to haul the couple in so that he can go home and drink beer and put on some TV when—
WHAM.
A black guy comes bounding out of the crowd and socks the white cop in the jaw, snapping his head around, popping the helmet off his head.
The assailant runs off before the white cop can recover from that sucker punch or his black partner can catch him. And the assailant is quick.
Black cop calls in an “assist officer.”
A block away, the same assailant proceeds to spread the word around town. Yo, some white cop just snuffed a black lady! She was all pregnant, too! No, man, for real, I saw it happen, right at Twenty-Second and Columbia!
Lots of bodies in the streets now, moving down Columbia Avenue.
A dozen cops arrive in response to that “assist officer.”
Even more bodies in the streets now, milling around, wondering what’s going to happen next. These pigs gonna kill another pregnant black woman? Maybe even a kid?
A red squad car turns onto Columbia from Twentieth Street and—
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM
—a barrage of rocks pelt the windshield and hood.
Later, they’ll say this was a setup, and salt-and-pepper team here drew the unlucky straw that struck flint and WHOOOSH, up goes the whole Jungle.
Right around the time the Columbia Avenue Riots kick into high gear, Patrolman Stan Walczak is passed out cold on his recliner, having downed a six-pack of Schmidt’s while reading the Bulletin . He has the night off. In fact, he has the whole weekend off. Just the way he likes it.
Somewhere, a phone rings.
He prays it’s a dream. Or a neighbor’s phone. Or a dream about his neighbor’s phone.
But no—there’s another goddamned ring. Stan forces his eyes open. It is just past 11 p.m., and this has been a long week. All Stan wants to do is go back to sleep. Who the hell’s calling him at this hour?
All at once he realizes there’s only one person who could be calling this late at night, and dammit, Rosie had better not answer the phone.
As Stan rises from his recliner the noise in his house blends together in an uneasy background rumble. Rosie has soft opera on the radio in the kitchen. Jimmy is upstairs with his record player, listening to either the Beatles or the Rolling Stones or some other loud whining group. Which is all the boy listens to these days—on his record player, on the radio, humming out loud. Every song sounds like the same song, too. Because I told you before, oh you can’t do that.
Yeah, well, I know what you can do, Stan thinks. Turn off
Eventually, somebody calls the cops.
Word gets to the Twenty-Second. Two patrolmen show up—a salt-and-pepper set. You see a lot of black-and-white duos around the Jungle these days. The idea is that the civilians, no matter their skin color, will have someone to relate to at all times.
But the truth is, blacks trust white cops more. And conventional wisdom around the department is that you never send two black cops out in a squad car—because it would be like sending out no car at all.
White cop tries to talk to the couple. The couple ignore him, keep on fighting. The wife has her feet locked on those damn pedals. No way is she moving. Uh-uh.
Cars honk. The sound echoes off the two- and three-story buildings like in a canyon.
Come on!
Black cop finally says, hell with this. He reaches in and pulls the woman out from behind the wheel. It’s a hot summer evening; people need to get home.
But this is the Jungle, and it is the summer of 1964, and the fury has been simmering all summer. It’s gonna reach full boil at some point—everybody can feel it.
White cop hops in, steers the car off the road so people can finally pass. He steps out of the car, slams the door shut, prepares to haul the couple in so that he can go home and drink beer and put on some TV when—
WHAM.
A black guy comes bounding out of the crowd and socks the white cop in the jaw, snapping his head around, popping the helmet off his head.
The assailant runs off before the white cop can recover from that sucker punch or his black partner can catch him. And the assailant is quick.
Black cop calls in an “assist officer.”
A block away, the same assailant proceeds to spread the word around town. Yo, some white cop just snuffed a black lady! She was all pregnant, too! No, man, for real, I saw it happen, right at Twenty-Second and Columbia!
Lots of bodies in the streets now, moving down Columbia Avenue.
A dozen cops arrive in response to that “assist officer.”
Even more bodies in the streets now, milling around, wondering what’s going to happen next. These pigs gonna kill another pregnant black woman? Maybe even a kid?
A red squad car turns onto Columbia from Twentieth Street and—
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM
—a barrage of rocks pelt the windshield and hood.
Later, they’ll say this was a setup, and salt-and-pepper team here drew the unlucky straw that struck flint and WHOOOSH, up goes the whole Jungle.
Right around the time the Columbia Avenue Riots kick into high gear, Patrolman Stan Walczak is passed out cold on his recliner, having downed a six-pack of Schmidt’s while reading the Bulletin . He has the night off. In fact, he has the whole weekend off. Just the way he likes it.
Somewhere, a phone rings.
He prays it’s a dream. Or a neighbor’s phone. Or a dream about his neighbor’s phone.
But no—there’s another goddamned ring. Stan forces his eyes open. It is just past 11 p.m., and this has been a long week. All Stan wants to do is go back to sleep. Who the hell’s calling him at this hour?
All at once he realizes there’s only one person who could be calling this late at night, and dammit, Rosie had better not answer the phone.
As Stan rises from his recliner the noise in his house blends together in an uneasy background rumble. Rosie has soft opera on the radio in the kitchen. Jimmy is upstairs with his record player, listening to either the Beatles or the Rolling Stones or some other loud whining group. Which is all the boy listens to these days—on his record player, on the radio, humming out loud. Every song sounds like the same song, too. Because I told you before, oh you can’t do that.
Yeah, well, I know what you can do, Stan thinks. Turn off
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