15 minutes. Clocking in to 20 minutes. And then half an hour.
I normally would've given myself some extra time to buy so I could’ve made it to the Ball Arena in time with my coworkers from the Denver Homeowners Association. With every get-together, I would've seen it fit to buy myself more time to hightail it on the road so I would’ve met up with my coworkers for many important events, and this was no exception. But it was already creeping in close to seven o'clock, and it threw my plans out of whack, my plans to be there earlier than that so I could’ve met up with my coworkers, gotten more comfortable, gotten acquainted with new friends, and all that jazz before we’d experience some actual jazz music.
But I’m getting sidetracked. Let me start over. My coworkers and I ran a business module where we troubleshot housing industries, and we were slightly in a celebratory mood because this past year we've had a significant boost of deals to strike and thus more landowners to negotiate with.
Because of this, we thought it best to celebrate the occasion by going out to a local concert occurring just northwest of Denver.
The musicians performing at that concert were a band called Atticus and the Mockingbirds. I have not been familiar with this band outside of a couple of songs that I heard in passing. I remember liking their style and sense of music just fine, but to the rest of my coworkers, they were the bee’s knees, and somehow, this praise fueled my intrigue. At first, I thought about sitting this out, because it had been subject to some off-putting activities surrounding the concert hall as of late, with some activities being more riotous than others. But the euphoria I felt with my coworkers was too great to resist.
So, I agreed with them to hop over to this concert, especially since my employer, Mr. Guthrow, mentioned to us that partaking in this concert would’ve guaranteed us some good tips as to what other advertisements and revenues we could’ve taken advantage of, if that meant linking to more people across the city for our business negotiations. He’d heard of plenty other business owners within his profession who might’ve gone over to see this concert. So, to him, this would’ve been as good an opportunity as any to hit two birds with one stone by enjoying a nice night out and also reaching out to others who’d have made decent potential business partners.
Before I left that night, I told my wife about why my coworkers and I were seeing the concert, and she seemed incredulous at that notion. “Have fun, sweetie, but it still feels like a stretch to plan a nice night out and also plan it as a business trip all at once.”
I explained to her how that’s part of the job, and that anything that seemed insignificant, but would nonetheless promise me a boost in my career, is gonna make this ‘night out’ even more worth it.
I remember my kids being a little bummed that I was not gonna be around for dinner that night, and that they and their mother would've had to fend for themselves. Once I got that taken care of, I hopped into my Subaru and drove off.
But I should have anticipated the weather that was about to creep forth. It was raining cats and dogs, and I could have barely seen any farther than 20 or 30 feet in front of me no matter how many miles I covered.
But while I started off more worried for my life going through this weather, my fear slowly turned into frustration. By the time I hopped onto Interstate 70 to make it to the concert – I figured at the time that this would’ve been the closest thing to a shortcut I could’ve taken to the Ball Arena – all the cars, trucks and taxi cabs around me were slowly inching their way forth, but at an unbearable pace of about no more than a mile every four minutes. I was feeling queasy in my stomach already with me wanting to listen to the jazz music with my coworkers, but I became doubly frustrated when I knew that going to this concert meant it was going to guarantee some more business for me and my coworkers. And the last thing I wanted to do was to be late for anything related to work. Call me a white rabbit, but I had no other choice but to put up with the traffic if it meant making it to the concert, no matter what. I could’ve turned around and taken the normal routes, but once that thought occurred to me, it was in the middle of my journey, so it was too late for me to attempt that.
After waiting for the traffic to loosen up for around 20 minutes, give or take, I finally got my chance when I saw the street to which I planned to turn.
So, after making my right turn and working my way as carefully as possible throughout the dark, soggy and hammered streets and buildings throughout town, my heart start to light up. I noticed the Ball Arena several miles away from me, since I recognized the lights, and I knew that if I just drove closer and closer to them, I would’ve made it there sooner rather than later.
I didn't even bother to look at the clock. The way I normally saw it, it's better to make it there than to fret about being late for anything, whether it's for work or with family. From what I dared to gander from my watch, I remember it saying only 7:25 PM. Sure, I will have missed a few songs by then. And who knows, maybe I might have missed some other chance meetings that would've been most crucial for our business expedition, but at least I would have caught up with whatever my coworkers and employer gained out of that concert later. It's not the end of the world.
What I saw next, in front of the Ball Arena, slowly took a turn for the worse. It looked unusual, it felt alarming and the excitement I felt slowly melted away, and I felt an eerie, uncertain presence of fear taking its place once again. Something did not look right when I finally managed to find a parking spot. As soon as I got out of the car and walked closer, I became dumbstruck when I noticed all the caution cones around the front entrance. But as the police scene investigation tape scattered throughout, that’s when my worry started to amplify.
Whatever happened, or whoever did this, if it was possible, I couldn't have borne just standing idly by and watching the investigation go on. I had to know what happened.
Fortunately, I noticed one of the police officers making her way into the crime scene, so this gave me a chance to run up to her while she stood before the tape.
“Excuse me,” I yelled.
“Don't! You can't go in here. It's under investigation.”
“What happened?” was all I could’ve asked her.
“Frankly, you might have lucked out. What happened was the Atticus and the Mockingbirds and several audience members in the concert have been massacred by some crazed maniac that lunged in with a tommy gun. From what little the witnesses and audience members could’ve gathered of what he screamed out, he was proclaiming to uphold some sort of obligatory measure against the band, as well as to the audience members for giving into their falsehood of ideology. At lest, that’s what I recall picking up from my radio signals.”
Believe me, I don't recall having caught wind of anything like this in years, but when I heard her go into greater detail about the audience members being among the casualties, my stomach started sinking lower and lower.
“Please don't be who I think it is,” was what I heard my brain say. And the next thing I know, after trying to find the right words to ask her with, out of my mouth came:
“Do you recall who the audience members were that have been hit?”
“Well, what I do recall is that among the casualties are all the committee members from the Denver Homeowners Association.”
As soon as I heard those words come out of her mouth, I dropped to my knees on the soaked pavement. I could have barely believed it. All this time, I was more worried about being late for this concert and for another one of our mandatory meetings. And now I had driven all the way here for nothing. All because something none of us expected came along to take all that away from me. My coworkers, I was getting so close to many of them, and I tried my best to prove myself as a capable worker to them and Mr. Guthrow.
I felt a numbness grow inside of me, a gaping sickness that this time had not come from the rain.
“The only good news I can tell you though, outside of you having not been around to see it, was that the surviving witnesses immediately dialed 911, and then the rest of the police force and I quickly captured the culprit before he could have made a break for it. Like I said, we're still investigating the details of the situation as we speak. But other than that, there’s nothing more I can dispel to you. And if you know the people who’ve been shot, you have my sincerest condolences, sir, and I’m sorry.”
I felt too numb. My disbelieving ears still continued to barricade against the words that slipped out of her mouth, no matter how hard I tried to listen. As I sank lower and lower, I saw my family flashing before me. My employer, my coworkers, my reports, the houses we were meaning to sell off to the business partners to whom we meant to reach out, some of whom I still kept in touch with, they were just wiped away from me in a snap. I didn't know what to think. I didn't know how to report this to my family. I didn't know what to do work-wise. I didn't even know how to respond when something this catastrophic happened with work or the new friends I made through it.
Then, a minute later, I could not have remembered anymore after that. I remember only seeing black with a faint vibration. I felt it on the side of my head when it hit the pavement.
“And don't forget,” interrupted the officer I spoke with, “the time where you had to be taken to the ambulance. You see, the paramedics wondered how hard you hit your head on the pavement when that occurred.”
“I remember, sir,” I responded, “that I ended up in the hospital for no more than a couple days before my wife and kids heard the news and came to pick me up. Anyway, sir, this is all I can recall of what I experienced that night. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you anymore about what happened at the Ball Arena, who the crazed assassin was or who else among the audience were sent to their graves because of this…maniac! Good riddance! Scumbags like him should best be thrown long behind bars for what he had done!”
“Well, I appreciate your time and commitment to tell us what you remember of that horrific night. I know it must’ve been really hard on you.”
“Thank you, officer,” I said. As the officer got up, he opened the door and held it for me as I walked out. The only thing I found gratifying about this report was that I was finally able to get one of the most nightmarish nights of my life off my chest.
Suddenly, as I was about to walk out of the building, I felt myself creeping closer to the sounds of my wife and my children calling for me.
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