The Argument
I don’t see the argument begin. By the time I look around it’s already in full swing; Or simmering maybe, the rage building but not bubbling over, still a self-conscious clinging, whispering concern, still protecting each others dignity, but I can see that won’t last long. With my headphones on I can’t hear what it’s about, but it looks important. A life or death decision is being made, lines drawn and sides chosen, the big guns dragged out and primed to destroy.
I have the solution: with music pumped to me alone the petty conflicts of the outside world are nothing but a vaguely amusing backdrop to my own thoughts. Life and death decisions don’t concern me. They’re a context with no object, a ridiculous circumstance with no possible connection to my life. As I turn and notice the couple arguing one of my favourite songs comes on, and I rejoice despite their pain. I don’t know who it’s by, but it starts: “I could feel at the time, There was no way of knowing, Fallen leaves in the night, Who can say where they’re blowing…” I move my lips soundlessly and imagine that the woman, looking up at her boyfriend, or husband or whatever, pleading, berating or maybe saying goodbye, is singing right along with me, her troubles forgotten.
The other occupants of the shop huddle at the window, gripping the serated edge of the frame gingerly, and watch the riot. It’s calmed down some now, become concentrated in tense stand-offs with an exoskeletoned enemy, but excited youths still gather missiles and head to the front. The stink of revolution will linger for days, the bitter and cynical mumbling of the citizenry as the burnt out cars are hauled away and the graffitti scrubbed off the artwork.
I do see the screaming start. He says something that I guess has a note of finality, but she holds onto his jacket as he turns towards the window, yells and beats his back until he’s forced to turn to her. I imagine he says “Relax honey, God will protect me,” to which she retorts “Maybe your god plans to make you a martyr, ever think of that?” But probably the screaming and arm-waving that manages to draw stares even from the riot has nothing to do with God. Maybe they’re debating the finer points of Marxist philosophy, this is/isn’t the start of a mass movement, we should/shouldn’t engage in violent insurrection. Maybe he just slept with her sister. Maybe she’s saying “As free as the wind, And hopefully learning, Why the sea on the tide, Has no way of turning…”
I don’t see the riot shifting, but suddenly there’s a rush of bodies past the window. Bloodied heads with red eyes take cover with us, dragging the choking stench of tear-gas behind them, groping for the corners, for protection. The couple forget their differences and cling to each other as the police sweep in with truncheons and shields and pig-faced gas masks. Through my headphones, an anonymous voice sings “More than this, There is nothing.” He steps in front of her, playing protector, but he gets a truncheon to the temple and then she gets the same, both wrestled to the ground, swamped in a wave of navy blue. There’s one in front of me too, black holes for eyes, raising his arm to strike. A sharp sting of static bursts over my headphones, louder and more grating than anything I’ve ever heard; It doesn’t stop when I rip them off.
