Cole Shoot

by Micheal Maxwell

“Kelly!” Cole waved his arms again, trying to get her attention.

  “Look!” she called back, pointing at the dragon quickly approaching them.

  “Get your stuff together. We need to get out of here. There’s going to be trouble,” Cole said as he reached where she stood. But it was too late.

  The rapid fire of multiple gunshots seemed to add a separate soundtrack to the parade. The two gangs of young men moved through the crowd in the slow motion images of the mind’s inability to accept what it knows is true.

  People ran in all directions, sending the spectators into each other, pushing, shoving, and trampling anyone who got in the way. The dragon stopped moving momentarily when the head collided with the tail. As the crimson tube attempted to straighten, several pairs of feet stumbled as it moved directly between the two gangs of shooters.

  A small group of dots expanded into bloody splotches on the snowy-white shirt front of an FCBZ member as he dropped to the ground. Before Cole could take a breath, a stray bullet struck the forehead of a dark haired women who froze in terror as the gunfire erupted. The wall behind Kelly zinged with the sound of a bullet deflecting off a piece of metal trim.

  Cole instinctively pulled Kelly to the ground and covered her with his body. The pop, pop, pop of small caliber pistols, and the thunderous blast of large bore, automatic handguns echoed in the street as the shooting continued. Cole could feel Kelly’s heavy breathing beneath him as he tried to get a visual of the shooters faces.

  I must to be able to describe facial features, outstanding characteristics, and individual tattoos Cole thought as the shots suddenly stopped. Just as quickly, the slow motion snapped back into real time. The crowd pushed, shoved, and tried to run both ways up the street.

  “Are you OK?” Cole asked gently, as he rolled and stood, offering Kelly his hand.

  “Yes, I’m fine. What’s happening, Cole?” She panted.

  “Gang shoot-out! Get back!” Cole pressed Kelly against the wall with the back of his arm. The crowd pushed and stumbled past them, knocking their ice chests and folding chairs into the street.

  In one hysterical moment, the parade was shattered. The marching band broke formation, and like a colorful, chaotic mob they scattered through the spectators. Within sixty seconds the block was nearly deserted.

  Somewhere into the madness, both gangs disappeared. Six lifeless bodies lay sprawled and twisted on the sidewalk. Legs and arms dangled into the gutter, bodies draped across the curb, the dead and dying lying in puddles of crimson. Moaning and crying replaced the joyous sounds of the parade as several small groups of people knelt, and stood around men, women, and children hit by stray bullets.

  In the center of the street, the dragon lay collapsed in an oddly snarled heap; the head broken off at the neck, eyes skyward, mouth gaping open, a faint wisp of smoke escaping from one of the eyes. Sticking out from under the torn and broken dragon was a pair of black tennis shoes, one pointing up and one twisted to the side, exposing a red star.

  “Kelly, I think you need to stay here.”

  Cole moved quickly toward the dragon, his eyes never leaving the red star. A hundred things flew through his mind as he made his way across the street. He was too much the realist not to know who he would find; his concern was what he would find.

  For a brief moment, Cole stood next to the dragon. Several feet to his left, he heard a groan, but nothing in front of him. Grasping two of the bamboo support ribs, Cole gently lifted the torn silk form.

  Chris Ramos lay with his arms over his head, his hands clutching his elbows. A large, dark stain covered the front of his red silk shirt, a look of complete and utter disappointment on his face. There was no life in his eyes.

  TWO

  Weather is a strange thing. In the course of three days, snow can melt, a drought can end, or in the case of San Francisco, sunshine and blue skies can turn to fog. The grey veil of fog that shrouded the city the morning of Chris Ramos’ funeral seemed a final insult to a man whose life had been one of torment for what he was, and a well spring of joy for those who really knew him for who he was.

  The small chapel at St. Bartholomew’s had to be abandoned for the cavernous main sanctuary of the cathedral. An hour and a half before the service was to begin, the chapel was full and several hundred people were lined up outside. Father Martinez directed his staff like a crazed orchestra director. Within minutes the cathedral doors were opened, the alter vessels and flowers were all in place, looking like it was the original plan.

  Chuck Waddle, Carlos’ long-time partner and Cole’s boss, asked Cole to be a pallbearer. As a rule, Cole Sage did not go to funerals. Ellie’s marked an end to the twenty-odd years he successfully avoided almost all end of life ceremonies.

  Cole stood outside the church near the hearse. The five other pallbearers were a combination of friends, relatives, and business associates of Chris’ and all strangers to Cole. As he waited silently, his mind wandered back to the day he first acted as a pallbearer. It was June 12, 1968 and Cole, the high school kid, faced death for the first time. Carol Anne Wilkins was a classmate and family friend. Her parents came to the Sage home, and, through tears and kind words, asked Cole to be a pallbearer. As a small boy, he attended services for one of his grandparents; but the memory was just a blur. Cole had no idea what a pallbearer was, but he felt the importance of the position and agreed.

  Cole’s mother took him to buy a suit. It was dark, navy blue with embossed metal buttons and wide lapels. A snow-white shirt, so crisp and starchy it actually made a crackling sound when he tried it on, was added to the ensemble. Most of all, he remembered his mother turning to him and telling him to go pick out a tie.

  His first choice was a flaxen, paisley belly warmer, a swirling floral affair with burgundy thistles that caught Cole’s eye and would be the envy of all his peers. His knowing nothing about color or propriety made for an instant rejection of Cole’s choice and his mother accompanied him to the rack for a second attempt. The hippie influenced width was acceptable but it must be dark muted colors to match the suit. Cole found the same paisley print in blue, a compromise that was easily reached.

  Cole smiled at his memory as another man joined the group waiting in front of the cathedral. He easily rolled back to 1968 and the day he waited in front of the church where Carol’s funeral was held, as he stood silently in his new suit. The sharp pain and shock of Robbie Montebello’s words hit Cole afresh.

  “I sure hope it’s not heavy,” Robbie had whispered.

  “What?” Cole replied.

  “The casket. My dad said sometimes they are really heavy.”

  At that moment, the hearse rolled up in front of the church and Cole could see the white coffin in the back. A blanket of white chrysanthemums covered the box inside. Like a gust of bitter wind, Cole realized Carol was in the coffin. ‘Pallbearer’ was just a nice way to say he would be carrying a box with his dead friend in it. Cole began to cry.

  The voice of the man next to him interrupted Cole’s thoughts.

  “See that guy?” the man indicated a skeletally thin man who stood smoking and crying. “He sees the handwriting on the wall.” The stout Hispanic man to the left of Cole blew smoke and looked at him for the first time.

  “How’s that?” Cole answered.

  “AIDS. He’s been fighting it for years. Sad, he’s a good guy. I’m Rick, Chris’ cousin,” He said offering his hand.

  “Cole Sage.”

  “The newspaper guy.”

  “That’s me.”

  “They’re not going to catch the punks who killed Chrissie are they?” Rick’s voice lost the friendly tone as he crushed out his cigarette on the sidewalk. “They’ll get away with it. Cops are afraid of them,”

  Before Cole could respond, an ashen-pale funeral director in a Bible-black suit addressed the six men standing by the hearse. “Gentlemen, the mourners have all been seated and now it is our responsibility to carry the deceased to the vestibule.”

  “Ch
ris. His name was Chris,” Rick’s voice cracked with emotion as he corrected the pale man.

  “Yes, Chris.” The funeral director gave his shoulders a jerk backward and began speaking in a soft, deliberate voice. “We will join Father Martinez in the back of the church. He will drape the casket with the pall, do the introductory blessing, and then you will each take your spot on the rail and roll the trolley to the altar. Once there, roll the trolley so the casket is parallel with the altar. At that point, please take the seats under the arch to the right of the altar. There is a sign reading “Reserved” across the front row. At the end of the Mass, the process is reversed and we will lift the casket from the trolley and return it to the hearse. Any questions?”

  No one responded. The men silently approached the back of the hearse. The Funeral director pulled out the rolling tray on which the snow-white and gold-trimmed casket sat. Just like Carol’s Cole thought. The pallbearers, without direction or speaking, each took one of the six handles and in one swift, smooth motion removed the casket. With almost fluid movement, the six men made their way up the twelve steps to the front doors of the cathedral. Without hesitation, they set it gently on the waiting black draped trolley.

  The journey to the altar was a blur to Cole, an ocean of heads and black clothes. The smell wafting from the ocean of flowers, mixed with the pungent sweet odor of the priest’s incense burner, made Cole slightly lightheaded.

  As he took his seat with the other pallbearers, he saw Kelly sitting near the aisle several rows from the front. She was dressed in a black jacket, turtleneck, a small black hat, and sunglasses. Cole was taken by the beauty of her profile. I’ll just try to focus on her he thought, as he settled into his seat.

  Chuck Waddle sat, head bowed, his wide shoulders heaving, his rugged suntanned hands covering his face. The rough, hard drinking, Eastwoodesque editor looked frail and defeated as he sat weeping alone on the front pew.

  The church was filled with a large contingency of Hispanic men and women, Southeast Asians, and Artsy types that Chris worked with in the design industry. Conspicuous in dress and size, three rows of elegantly quaffed and hatted drag queens turned out to pay their last respects to one of their great fans. Black sequins and boas seemed somehow the most sincere tribute to the flamboyant little man in the showy white coffin.

  In the midst of the boas and sequins, stood Chris’s favorite drag queen. He stood because he was a dwarf. Cole only met the little African American man once. He had come to Chuck and Chris’s house for a fitting. Chris Ramos’ love for flashy outfits spilled over into his love of drag performance, making him the go-to-guy for outrageous stage outfits. Franklin Jackson, or “Biggie Smallie”, as he was known on stage, was being outfitted in a gold lame jumpsuit that looked like a cross between Elvis and the Funkadelics. Cole recalled Biggie sticking out his ample rump in Cole’s direction and saying in his most femme voice, “Does this make my butt look big?” He was a hilarious little guy and the rapid fire exchanges with Chris could have been show stopping stage patter. Cole would miss his friend’s laser wit and his mind’s warp speed processing. So would Franklin Jackson, as was evident by his red eyes, tear streaked cheeks, and gold lame cape.

  The sound of the priest’s voice faded as Cole sank deep into his own thoughts. Like a swirling Technicolor dream, his mind lapsed into rotating images of Chris in a montage of his exotic, over the top outfits. A holiday-centric mix of costumes clashed with the images of the Chinese New Year’s Parade; bloody bodies, screaming, panicked parents with children in their arms, spliced together with Chris opening the door and grinning in his red pajama parade outfit. Like Dorothy’s house crashing in Oz, it all landed, exposing only the red sequined star tennis shoes of the body sprawled beneath the dragon.

  Cole turned his focus back to Kelly. As the priest spoke of unconditional love and acceptance, Cole was touched by the tears rolling down Kelly’s cheek. Oddly, Cole found no peace in the priest’s words. The five hundred plus people seated in the cathedral were not the ones who needed to hear the message. There were a dozen or more street thugs, armed to the teeth, that terrorized, maimed, and killed innocent people who needed to be force-fed the words of the priest.

  How different this service was from Ellie’s. The muted light of the cathedral and the heavy robes of the priest gave the whole affair a gloomy, almost morbid, feel. Ellie’s service was all sunlight and color. The hundreds of daisies that covered the casket were just an extension of the way she lived her life. The message that old Reverend Bates delivered was all about eternity. He spoke of the joys of heaven and how Ellie was free of the terrible disease that ravaged her body. He made heaven feel as if it was a breath away. The sunshine and daisies that filled the cemetery and service tent were like an invitation to one and all to answer his question, “Do you want to have eternal life and the knowledge of heaven like Ellie did?” with a resounding Yes!

  Even the music was joyful. There were no dirges or sad melodies, no pipe organ. Ellie was sent away with All is Well with My Soul and Amazing Grace. For a moment Cole was awash in the pain of her death. He’d come so far, since they were reunited. The short time they were together had reignited their undying love and had healed years of pain, remorse, and regret.

  But, today he was a new man, reborn in a way. His health, career and now, even Kelly, who, though not a replacement for Ellie, had become a source of goodness, optimism, and light just as she was. Cole was given a wonderful daughter, Erin. Although meeting for the first time as an adult, she is still as close and dear to him as if he had known her from birth. His granddaughter, Jennie, is such a delight. In her, Cole sees what Erin must have been like as a child. Erin and Jennie are loved and protected by a husband and father that every father wishes for their daughter. Cole Sage was a blessed man, and he was thankful. In the quiet of the massive cathedral, Cole closed his eyes and thanked the Creator for his many blessings.

  The service ended with Holy Communion. Cole was the only one on his row who didn’t go to the front of the church. As the pallbearers one by one returned to their seats, Cole received a combination of dirty looks and quizzical stares. My ‘protestant’ must be showing Cole thought.

  As the casket rolled back up the aisle, Cole smiled at Kelly and she touched his arm as he passed. There was to be no graveside service. Chris’ wishes for his funeral service had been clearly outlined in the papers he kept in Chuck’s top dresser drawer. Until Chris’ death, Chuck was never interested in looking in the hand-carved, teak box from Malaysia. It turned out that it held several important documents; Chris’s will, social security card, birth certificate, and three letters to Chuck written over their fifteen years together. Chuck told Cole that the day after the shooting he had burned the letters without reading them. “There is only so much space for grief, and I’m full up,” he said.

  The final item on Chris’s funeral plan was a party at Bimbo’s 365 Club. Had Cole been by himself, he would have walked the half mile to the nightclub on Columbus, but it seemed a long trek for Kelly in heels, so he hailed a cab. The truth is, had he been by himself, he wouldn’t have gone at all. They decided not to fight the parking chaos and left Kelly’s car at the church.

  “We don’t have to stay, do we?” Cole asked Kelly, as the cab pulled to a stop in front of Bimbo’s 365.

  “Not if you don’t want to,” Kelly reached over and squeezed Cole’s hand.

  “Driver, can you go once around a couple of long blocks?”

  “Yes sir!”

  The cab pulled away from the curb and accelerated down Columbus. Cole and Kelly sat silently as they moved through the mid-morning traffic. Cole looked out the window and tried to figure out a way to not make an appearance at the wake. What he really wanted to do was go back to his office and start making calls. There needed to be answers and accountability for the senseless bloodshed at the parade. Chuck Waddell wouldn’t be back to the office for a couple of weeks. The assistant editor would be filling in and would be doing good ju
st to keep the presses rolling. Cole decided that his next story would be getting to the bottom the Chinatown Parade Shootings.

  As they approached the corner of Powell and Filbert, a small yellow box school bus pulled up alongside the cab at the stop sign. Cole looked up from the cab into the round face of a Hispanic boy who showed the distinctive features of Downs Syndrome. As their eyes met, the boy gave Cole a huge grin. Cole gave the boy a big smile and waved.

  The boy turned in his seat and made big circular windmills in the window. He mouthed something excitedly, but Cole couldn’t make out what he was trying to say.

  “What are you doing?” Kelly said with a giggle.

  “I was waving to the kid in the bus. He’s going crazy waving and laughing.” Cole rolled down the window. “What?” he said cupping his hand behind his ear.

  The boy slowly and clearly said, “I love you!” As he spoke he pointed at himself, made a heart with his thumbs and index fingers, and then with an exaggerated motion pointed at Cole and laughed happily.

  “I love you, too!” Cole shouted out the cab window.

  Kelly leaned across Cole to try and look up and out of the window, but the bus began to roll. The cab turned north up Columbus and the bus turned south on Powell.

  “See, there is still fun in the world if you grab it as it comes!” Cole took a deep breath and rolled up the window.

  “Marco! Sit down!” the bus driver yelled. The Hispanic boy was still waving out the window, though the cab disappeared from sight.

  The boy plopped down hard on the seat. “He said he love me too! Mei, he said he love me! You hear him?”

  Across the aisle a small Chinese girl, in heavy horn-rimmed glasses, sat giving Marco a quizzical look. “The window is closed. Nobody can hear him, silly.”

  “He said it. He said it,” Marco repeated.

  “OK,” Mei Chou said softly, “You could hear it.”

  “OK, he said it. Love is good,” Marco gave Mei an enormous smile. “I love you, Mei!”