Self-Portrait With A Shooting Nearby

A man yelled to his friends, "I heard six shots."

One night, a handful of weeks ago, I was staring down the bar kitchen’s slim door, waiting for our waiter to walk out with a basket of chicken wings, when two women hopped up from their chairs and bolted for the restroom. They looked like they were both in their twenties and that they were both made out of how good it can feel to be in your twenties. One smiled, the other laughed; they held hands as they dashed out of sight. I sipped my beer and smirked, thinking about the kind of gossip that, in the past, would have sent me running to the restroom with a friend in tow. 

The bar was lively for a Wednesday night. Maybe the unseasonably warm weather was doing something to everyone. My boyfriend pointed to the corner, where a woman had begun dancing by herself. Her friends smiled but didn’t join. Instead of a disco ball, an elephant plastered in mirror shards slowly spun overhead. Some frat bros greeted each other with hugs that reminded me of the way a farmer pats a beloved cow’s side. My stomach growled. The song that was playing changed its mind. 

I returned my attention to the kitchen door, ignoring the way I could feel my boyfriend reading my look. I refused to admit that I knew that he knew I was hangry. I sipped my beer and performed a smile. The kitchen door was so proud of itself. The nerve. My stomach growled again and my boyfriend tried to stifle a laugh which made me laugh. I leaned into him and let our shoulders talk. 

A guy came inside from the back patio and yelled to his friends, “I heard six shots.” 

Other people trailed inside behind him. They looked like they were coming inside for another round of drinks, not for safety. I thought about the two women who had run into the restroom and my posture righted itself into an alert “oh!” just as the music was turned off. 

The bartenders rushed out from behind the taps. One closed and locked the back patio door while the other locked the front entrance. He turned the key in the large glass door, which was bookended by large glass windows. Was that going to do anything? I remember thinking. Was there a shooting, and it’s now over? An argument between would-be friends that got out of hand. Or is there a shooter, and whatever happened is still happening? A young man with a gun and a flexible “to do” list. How close are they? What do they look like? What are we supposed to do with our bodies? 

No one ducked under tables or behind chairs. There were no screams. The waiter who had been in that tiny kitchen stayed in that tiny kitchen. My stomach growled again, oblivious to its own peril. I disciplined my hand when it reached for my drink. I kept trading looks and incomplete sentences with my boyfriend. I tried to be attentive, then realized that he, an Australian constantly bemused by American culture, had recognized this moment as American culture. And he was taking a selfie of us. In the picture, he is smiling and my face is blurred because I was scanning the room, looking for someone to tell us what to do or how to feel.

I couldn’t access my fear of death or its twin, my will to live. I don’t want to die; I very much want to live. But something about the evening rendered me unable to be a person in that room. I felt more like a self-portrait than a self.

And then: the music turned back on, the front and back doors were unlocked, a new crowd of people walked in, ignorant about what had just happened and then delighted when their friends caught them up on the situation. Tired of fidgeting without meaning, I walked to the bar and ordered three tequila shots. Red and blue lights flashed in the window as the bartender explained that they were out of Espolon. I walked back to the table with lime slices and three shots of Casa Migos. A news van pulled up to the curb and a man with a camera got out and walked around the corner. The waiter walked through the kitchen door with our chicken wings and didn’t stick around long enough to notice the way I stared at the food for a few moments, exhausted, bewildered and still hungry, before I finally took a bite and started coughing. I had asked for mild. 

The thing about our country is that random nights shot-through with meaningless, lethal violence are as common as weekdays. I remember waiting for the moment of alarm that night, the moment of clarity, of action—when I’d suddenly know what I needed to do. But nothing came. My cluelessness felt like an indictment; of what exactly, I’m still not sure. I don’t want to need to know what to do in these situations, but I knew I should because I know where I live. 

The night decided to move on whether or not meaning declared itself. We finished our food, had another round of beers, then paid our tab. We walked home holding hands and, at a stop light, some college guys spotted us and yelled “What, bro? You don’t like pussy?” as they sped off. A block or two later, I stopped and cried because nothing and everything made sense. My boyfriend held me, then we walked on, we went home, we curled up on the couch with the dog, we brushed our teeth, we slept. The next morning when we walked past the bar on the way to the grocery store, I saw some glass shards on the sidewalk but didn’t say anything.