by John Randall
Incredibly, none of the lanes at the intersection of Rainier and I-90 collapsed.
Yet the 12th Street/Golf Street Bridge collapsed; probably because it was the last bridge to be considered in the global mix of politics and road repair surrounding the underfunded and eventually discarded Pacific Medical Center. The bridge was an old truss-style with standard concrete pillars holding up the roadbed over I-90 (certainly not in the original design of the bridge).
It was like God was saying this would be overkill; like it would be bad form, even for God.
Denny pointed to the left, then crossed to the “fast” lane, then across into what normally would be oncoming traffic; only now was nothing except milling people at every intersection. Karen, gaining a second or third wind, smoothly followed him. Now on the northbound side of Rainier Ave. S, Denny weaved around parked vehicles, barely heard some yo-mans and sexual references as he sped by—followed by his 22-year old “assistant”.
Denny weaved a bit as he looked for the path, then spotted it, bore to his left and crossed the concrete of Rainier Avenue S, and was now into Judkins Park, a greenbelt buffer between the Atlantic neighborhood and the interstate; with macadam paths and beaten grass; which upon further review one might find several varieties of needles and related personal item debris. To their right they could see the massive intersection of I-90.
There was virtually no traffic on Rainier Avenue S., one of the busiest streets in Seattle; the ones out an about were a combination of local sightseers (hmm, they don’t have power, either), those on a mission (honey go get me some milk-beer-cigs) or just out for no good reason (bad reasons).
Karen could hear Denny laboring. He’s 52, had his shoulder separated this morning, stole $8,000 from REI and has a passion for getting out of Seattle tonight. She put an extra ounce of effort into her peddling behind him. She could smell him from his vapor trail; not a bad smell, but manly.
They raced through Judkins Park; both sides of the path were grass-less; and past the very worn-out basketball courts next to unused tennis courts that looked like they hadn’t seen a net in fifteen years. Approaching the 23rd Avenue crossing, Karen shouted. “I need to stop! Out of breath! Stitch in my side!” Denny gradually came to a rolling stop; a cold mist enveloped the pair. Denny was sweating; shoots of hot breath spit out of his mouth. Being a young woman, Karen would have been glistening instead of sweating, but she was ragged tired and instead was just simply melting. So this is what they mean by diet and exercise?
Denny was glad to pull aside, manly or not. Seattle was about to settle into a dark envelope of a quick dusk then fall quickly into pitch dark. But, it wasn’t dark yet, just a misty, crappy, late cold afternoon.
“Help!”
Karen’s ears perked, her chest and quadruple-soaked sweatshirt from this morning still heaving from the exertion of the hard and thankfully uneventful ride through the Atlantic neighborhood.
Karen stepped off her bike, her pelvis and butt hurting, and walked off the macadam path to her right. Directly below her were 17 lanes of Interstate 90, incredibly separated by three strips of “greenbelt” where WSDOT had tried to melt humanity into what was a concrete pour gone insanely mad. The first seven lanes were empty.
She looked at Denny, who joined her at the edge of the 23rd Street Bridge. Normally a person couldn’t hear themselves think because the noise from the traffic below was so bad. A hundred thousand vehicles a day went under the bridge. Now there was nothing! Nothing!
“Help! Help us!”
Why were there no people? Why was there no backed-up traffic coming into town?
Karen re-focused. Half-way across the lanes of traffic was a handful of people; a mixture of white, black and probably Asian; from what she could see they were frantically waving her way. They’re waving at us!
“Denny, those people are waving at us. We have to help them,” whatever “help them” meant.
Denny looked quickly toward the people 60 feet below and a hundred feet south of him on the deck of I-90 eastbound; fret filled his face. He shook his head no; then quickly and wordlessly shook his head no again.
“What do you mean no?” Karen came to a stop, her slouchy back more firm; her uncombed and unwashed thick brunet hair, four times drenched in perspiration, hanging on her neck like a grease monkey. “You’re, we’re not going to go help those people?” She was dumbfounded, knocked off her universe, and quickly became angry.
“We need to go that way,” he pointed toward the entrance to the bicycle-pedestrian tunnel underneath Mt. Baker that led to the I-90 Bridge to Mercer Island, and from there “out of Seattle”. “We don’t have much time,” he urged her.
“Time?” she shouted. “I saved your ass from dying in a fucking elevator this morning! I had time. I knocked your fucking shoulder back,” her features were still difficult to see because of her frumpy cover-all clothes. I had time for that!” she continued to shout.
Karen gave Denny a no-nonsense laser eye response, implying I’m not going anywhere else with you unless we try to help these people. With a crap look on his face, Denny turned toward the 23rd Avenue Bridge and started across. The bridge had a twenty-foot-wide-made-by-humans-greenbelt (on the bridge) which prevented people on the bridge from actually seeing the 17-lanes to the west, like putting a head in the sand and pretending it wasn’t there.
Karen and Denny walked their bikes to the center of the bridge, waded through the greenery and through the evergreens to a point where they could peek out over the I-90 concrete. Thirty feet below were a handful of people, all shouting up to them. Karen waved; Denny winced.
“We need help!” shouted someone from below. “Where are the police? There are dead people here! We need help!”
Dead people; not two words anyone looks forward to hearing.
“When are they coming?” More shouts came from below; the crowd was up to ten people.
“How many are there of you?” Karen’s voice carried to the crowd below.
“Why don’t they just walk out?” muttered Denny.
“We can’t leave! There are injured people down here!” the agitated man wore a white service uniform. “Where are the ambulances? Why aren’t we getting any help?”
“How many? Karen asked again.
“Sixty or so,” came a flat reply.
Sixty people trapped in the Mt. Baker tunnel.
Karen gave Denny The Look. We aren’t going anywhere.
Judkins Park
23rdAvenue S. @ S. Dearborn St.
Gezus Gezus Howard, his mother had hoped for nothing less than a miracle for her boy so he got a double-dose of heavenly love even though she, like countless other ignorant poor mothers, couldn’t spell nor read worth a lick, began making the rounds of his domain around mid-morning shortly after awaking; disengaging from a small-breasted 14-year old, her twat glued to his groin on one side and the butt of a woman he didn’t recognize facing the downslope direction on the other. Referred to as Double Gesus by his enemies, Mr. Gesus by the young wannabes and G2 by his friends, the 28-year old was the acknowledged leader of the Deuce Eight gang which controlled a ten-block square of south central Seattle from Jackson Street and Yesler Way to the north, over to 29th Avenue S. to the east and down to Judkins Park, just north of I-90; drugs, prostitution, murders, extortion, home invasions, all the typical things bad-ass low-life assholes do. While the police had been able to arrest various members, including a small gang of 13-year old boys who were being “mentored” in the way, very little damage had been done to the Deuce Eights.
There was noise outside, but then, there always was noise on the outside. But, this noise was different. There were too many people out and about.
What the fuck is all that about?
Leaving the bookends in bed, G2 clambered up and about, pulled up a pair of very worn grey pants over his skinny ass, a slender body pock-marked by battle, shouldered a Mariner’s warm-up jacket and made sure his ball cap was just so, dopey backwards, slippe
d into some ‘keds and walked outside into his domain, which was already very busy.
“s’up?” he asked.
The jibberish that came out of Li’l Bob’s mouth was unintelligible but to the very inside; but clear enough that G2 understood; earthquake. He’d slept through a fucking earthquake; not only your garden variety earthquake, but something that knocked the fucking buildings down around him, gone as he was; memories of the 14-year old began to refresh. The little slut had come up from SeaTac two months ago and was now one of his top earners. She could make a white man come in his pants in less than 30 seconds, she was so good. That’ll be one-fifty, thank you sir. The other bitch, the bubblebutt, he really didn’t recognize; but she was good; she could suck the juice out of a pine cone.
He started his rounds, first in his home row housing; the handshakes were intricate, exacting, and different from the gangs in the next street or neighborhood. He made sure to complement the young boys, to encourage them to master the sign language and especially the ‘shake. All gang ‘shakes were different. Some of the boys looked down as he passed with don’ hurt me in their eyes; they were the ones who were raised by strict mamas who didn’t want them associating with the Duece 8 gang.
It didn’t matter what the mamas wanted; every boy, every young man ended up a member of the Deuce 8; because the Deuce 8 controlled the Atlantic neighborhood. Every young girl ended up a whore to the Deuce 8 gang, whether she wanted to or not. There was no solution for parents who had children. Move? Are you kidding? Move where and with what? From one housing system to another; from the Deuce 8 to the Yesler Terrace Bloods, or the East Union Street Hustlers, or the 3rd and Pine, or the Deuce 0 (brotherhood); girls were raped at age 8 and dependent by age 10.
To the north were the Union Street Hustlers and to the west and north were the Yessler Terrace Bloods; directly west and south of I-90 were the South Side Locos 13, a small group of Bloods—the Valley Hood Piru and the now-decimated West Side Street Mobb controlled the Pike Place region.
Everyone agreed that the Burger King on S. Rainier was the dividing line between NS and SS gangs. A fucking Burger King; no one gang controlled the Burger King, it was like the mecca for central Seattle gangs, the place you had to go once in your life to see the activity in the surrounding streets; danger bubbling up; with fries or onion rings, no ketchup please.
Make mine a cheeseburger.
Some more gibberish came out of Lil’Bob’s mouth that told Double Gezus that something significant had happened.
There had been an explosion in the Mount Baker Tunnel.
Mt. Baker Tunnel
Eastbound Entrance I-90 @ Rainier Avenue S.
Karen pointed to a possible way for them to get down to the I-90 eastbound surface from their viewpoint on the western lid. “Over there,” she pointed to a pedestrian path that paralleled I-90. Denny gave her an old man look of disdain but wasn’t about to stay put when she took off.
“Karen!” Denny shouted. She stopped and turned. “You can’t get down there. There’s a twenty-foot tall noise barrier the whole way. You’ll have to go through the greenbelt, and then probably drop 20 feet to the roadway. You can’t do it with a bike. Not that way,” Denny pleaded, hoping she’d forget the whole thing.
“How then?” she shouted, angry, now asking him as a partner.
Well just shit and call me Henry.
There was no way he was going to leave her and no way was he was going to win the mini-battle. He pointed back to the north side of I-90, back where they had just come, across the 23rd Ave. S. crossing of the “the lid”.
Karen followed the air-trace of his hand and acknowledged OK. It was a pain in the ass, but do-able. They crossed back over 23rd, hung a left, came to a sharply-sloping open field, and started a steep downhill cross-country toward the I-90 westbound lanes.
Feeling like she was on the grassy knoll in Dallas with Kennedy’s vanguard approaching, Karen righted her bicycle and rode across the Rainier Ave. S. lane, across the empty six lanes of I-90 westbound to the bushy “greenbelt”, nothing more than five feet of annoying green bushes separating the regular westbound lanes and the HOV lanes. Karen smashed her bike through the greenery, and started pedaling the wrong way toward the entrance to the tunnel. There was no traffic. Just before the entrance to the tunnel there was a ten-foot section, a curb really, that she crossed to get to the poor people headed eastbound.
There were cheers and tears of joy as forty people of all ages, sexes, religions and backgrounds yelled for joy at contact with the outside world. Two minutes behind her came Denny, a very reluctant visitor, but nevertheless sharing in the celebration of the moment.
“Why are you still here?” Karen asked, breathlessly.
The assembled group included businesspeople, tradesmen, and folks in the wrong place at the wrong time, young people heading back to eastside; just average citizens who happened to be in the Mt. Baker Tunnel at 6:20 on February 20th.
“We were waiting for the police,” added a tall man.
“And the ambulances; we need ambulances,” a 50-ish woman with a drawn face added, nodding her head. She had a dazed what am I doing here look.
A woman in her 40s with long disheveled hair in a semi-trendy business outfit tried to answer. “The tunnel is blocked. There are dead people in there. But, there are people alive and hurt. I—we—couldn’t leave them. It’s fucking chaos,” she said simply, dead tired.
Beacon Hill Playground
14th Avenue S @ Grand Street
Nine blocks to the West, the streets encompassing South Atlantic Street, 15th Avenue South, South Bayview Street and 12th Avenue South, defined a skinny five-block by 12-block section of Seattle controlled by the South Side Locos 13 gang; the Locos were part of a national gang. While primarily Hispanic in other locations, the gang in Seattle was very mixed; Hispanic, white, Asian and white. In the center of the territory was the Beacon Hill Playground, a popular hangout for asshole wannabes and actual thugs.
Besides being the primary distributors of cocaine, SSL 13 controlled the manufacturing and distribution of Crystal Meth. They also controlled a section of physical territory north of the gangland Mason-Dixon Line, the imaginary line that radiates east and west from the Burger King at 2021 Rainier Avenue S. over to I-5 on the west side and to Lake Washington. The SSL 13 and Deuce 8 were fierce rivals, each occupying territory on opposite sides of I-90.
The leader of South Side Locos 13, affiliated with the Mexican mafia, was Jesus Hernandez Fernandez, with Hernandez being Jesus’ father and Fernandez his mother, standard naming conventions in Spanish-speaking societies. Jesus was everywhere in Seattle. If Maria Fernandez Hernandez married Jesus Hernandez Fernandez she wouldn’t change her name, instead referring to herself as Maria Fernandez Hernandez de Hernandez.
Regardless, this Jesus wasn’t the marrying kind.
As will happen when stupid and dangerous people have too much time on their hands, no skills and no access to phones, lights, TV, or iPods; then add liquor, drugs, fading sunlight and miserable rain; all it took was one incident, not even an incident, instead a sighting to kick off World War III in Seattle.
South Judkins Park
21st Avenue S. @ Norman Street
“Man, did you see what just happened?” a thirteen-year old wannbe named Leon reported to Li’l Bob, the words instead sounding like a string of undecipherable apostrophes. Li’l Bob, a 2004 graduate of 7th grade, now 22, nodded as if dopey Leon was reading him the U.S. Constitution. The young dope-head had his mouth wide open, fat lips swollen, bad enough for drool to spill out the left corner of his mouth. I’ll like to buy a vowel, Vanna; give me an E.
The sighting of course was that of Denny Cain leading his new protégée (she didn’t know it yet) Karen Bagley through the streets of central Seattle heading south at 30 miles an hour; cutting right through the southern portion of the Deuce 8 territory.
In just a matter of minutes G2 shuffled his way into the crowd, cutting through the g
roup like a hot iron on butter; whaz goin’ on he asked. Bla-bla-bla, then bla-bla-bla, finally a couple of niggers here and niggers there; the story took a twist; the girl (Karen) was now black, the older guy was a Spic dickhead. Warm beer back and forth; cocaine now in use; someone got a battery-operated CD player going playing some oldies but goodies.
Public enemy number one
Jailbreak and a smoking gun
You wont believe the things I've done
And the killing was just for fun
Public enemy number one
A storm comin, I'm on the run
Through the night to the rising sun
And the trouble has just begun
Songwriters: MUSTAINE, DAVE / KARKAZIS, JOHN
It was either the miserable rain or the cumulative effect of a really shitty day, but tempers and attitudes started to get a bit raw. The group, now forty or so started down the 22nd Avenue S. side of Judkins Park toward I-90. From out of nowhere they all seemed to be carrying weapons of some kind; bashing sticks, tire irons; guns were brandished.
Then two mumble-mouth dickheads came running up to G2 and started pointing across I-90 toward Daejeon Park. There were a handful of people dressed in blue and black, the colors of SSL 13; it was hard to tell for sure because Daejeon was three football fields away; but God-damn aren’t those South Side Locos motherfuckers? They’re out of their territory. But they could have been neighborhood people out for a walk because there was no electricity. Multiple people shouted. No, they’re coming after our turf; more shouting.
On the south side of I-90 the blue and black-coated wanderers were indeed SSL 13 members who started to shit bricks when they saw 40 young men approaching the opposite side of I-90. They’re going to try to take our territory! They’re making a run at us with the lights out. They turned and ran toward the Beacon Hill Playground, almost foaming at the mouth in anxiety.