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| JOEL TOLEDO |
| Literature |
| THE AUTHOR HOLDS THE COPYRIGHT TO THIS POEM. THIS IS POSTED WITH PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR. |
| THIS IS PART OF THE LITERATURA READING SERIES | CLICK HERE TO GO BACK TO LITERATURA |
| This is the plot:
A man plants a bench in the middle of the road and sits on it, oblivious to the afternoon heat and the heavy traffic he's now causing. People are gathering on the sidewalk. Some think the man is crazy, others just look on, welcoming the distraction. He's probably just lonely, an old woman whispers on page three. Get off the street, you idiot, shout some teenagers from behind parked cars. The crowd quickly hushes them. Someone has called the police. Now the whole street is littered with people and cars and more people and more cars. Sirens are wailing. A TV crew has arrived. The man is not heeding the police's repeated calls. He is just sitting there, his face buried in a book, a bottle of water next to him. He doesn't look too old; maybe in his forties. He looks up suddenly and squints at the hot sun. Just then he pulls out a revolver and waves it in front of his face. Even with the gun, he doesn't look dangerous. He looks more like he's trying in vain to fan himself with the weapon. He shakes his head, puts the gun down next to him, and goes back to his book. The book, by the way, is an interesting detail. It might even be symbolic. Sir, please put down your weapon, put your hands behind your head, and let the officers come to you. The policeman repeats the same instruction over and over. The man doesn't hear him. He is busy reading. The officer with the binoculars radios that it's an old, paperback with a faded red cover, the title too small to be read from a distance. We should take this guy seriously, says the policeman. They call in the SWAT team The crowd is told to please move back. The rifle scope zooms in and finds the man grinning. He is pleased about something. This guy's sick, whispers the sniper. He studies the man's movement carefully, waiting for a clear shot. The technique is called patterning. The idea is to memorize the minutest gestures of an armed person, predict his next action, and aim for the weapon. This involves a lot of waiting, a lot of patience. Meanwhile, the sun is blazing and there is no wind. The story becomes dragging here. It has been two hours now since the man brought the bench out to the street. And now, quite suddenly, he puts down the book and drinks from his bottle. He is finished reading. He looks around and considers the commotion he has caused. He is surprised at the turnout. Somehow he didn't think they would take him seriously. especially at this time of day, the sun blazing hot, slowing things down. He wipes the beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, takes his gun, stands up, looks around. The sniper wants to get this over with. The heat is making his palms sweaty. Even the crowd is anxious and restless, but they are completely drawn by the drama. They want to see this to the end. The old woman is mentioned again here. She is taking out her fan. Policemen wait behind their cars, fingers loosened on the trigger. Most of the onlookers are now seated on the sidewalk. Two men are talking quietly, smoking. They say his wife left him this morning, says one. That's his house over there, says the other. Now the climax. The man suddenly raises his gun The sniper thinks the man is about to fire at the crowd. He takes the shot. A young policeman, two weeks on the force, pulls the trigger. He thinks the man is aiming at him. The old lady (she again) buries her face in her hands. She thinks the man is pointing his gun to his head. Gunshots fill the air, echo in every television set all over the watching nation. By early evening, everyone has dispersed. The bench is gone, the traffic back to normal. There is a slight wind. In the chaos of the afternoon, the detectives did not find the book. They found a torn page at the far end of the street, but they couldn't be sure that it's from the same book. They will ask around the neighborhood The next day. I wish there is a clear resolution to the story. Finding the book will shed some light on the main character's background, motivations, etc. It might even explain the change of character. But this is often not the case, as in this one. The sun is gone and the crowd has gone back home. And in a hidden compartment somewhere inside the man's house, are other torn pages (the book's telling chapters, actually) and the detectives will not find them. The readers do not (get to) read beyond what's there. This poem is part of the collection that won Second Prize for Poetry in the 2004 Palanca Awards |