No One Was Hurt

No One Was Hurt

       by Douglas Cline, the Patsy

       

       gander at a homemade bomb

       and wonder how it's done

       slander someone who is strong

       and know that you have won

D.J. Dick scratched records for a living. He did it willingly and without malice aforethought. His work took him to the place of employ at approximately 9 p.m. and home at about 6 a.m. He played songs like "I Shot the Sheriff," and "Lucky Luciano's Back," and "Mists Over Jordan." He sported tattoos on his arms of various animals in the act of eating other animals. His neck, especially, took passersby by surprise since it showed a woman in a filmy costume halfway down the gullet of a swan. His clothing resembled nothing so much as the outfit of a tightrope walker who is halfway across Niagara Falls and hopes to make it all the way. Smile he did little. Dance he did all the time. His gait was a dance, one might say with certainty, since he bobbed and ducked as he stepped from foot to foot on his way somewhere. Not quite five inches over six feet, he looked slightly funny in his tall, hippity progress down street or through house or business place. His name was Tristan Speller.

       Mr. Speller was working his normal shift at the Empire Friday night, June 11, 2003 when he heard a grand explosion. He scratched vigorously across the record, announced that he was taking a short break, rushed through the wings of the stage on which he was set up, and saw that the Empire's back half existed no more. Brick and smoke, dust and debris met him instead of walls and roof. He made his way over the pile of ruin and into the alley behind. He saw a car dart out of a driveway and start to rush away. In a second, as it passed him, he made a move of instinct that haunted him the rest of his days. He reached for the car door handle and caught it and pulled. It opened and he leapt inside. Still not quite sure what he was doing or why he was there, he saw a man of similar age to his holding a gun and pointing it at him.

       "Why are you in my car?" the gun holder asked him. "Now you will have to die!" With that he shot the gun and Tristan saw the flash of the bullet exploding. The shooter, however, had never shot a gun before and he was so surprised by the effect that he dropped it and Tristan immediately picked it up and pointed it back at him. Then he thought to inspect himself. He had not been hit. The bullet had torn its way through the backrest of the seat before him and injured the driver whose foot now jammed the accelerator forward and the car rocketed down the street with no one steering it.

       "Steer!" Tristan commanded of the man who sat next to him. That worthy jumped up and reached over the back seat and did as he was told. He proceeded to climb to the front and brought the racing vehicle to a standstill.

       "Nice work!" Tristan shouted. "Let's go for a beer." They did that. Tristan found that his new acquaintance had no knowledge of the explosion. He had simply been escaping what looked to him like a work of criminals in his own back yard, and Tristan, he thought, was one of them. The two became fast friends and even today, three years later, they talk with joy about the time Tristan almost got himself shot and killed.