I had been walking across the concrete parking lot expanse that is Polo Park. Polo Park, where I used to go as a child to get my picture with Santa, and later on where I used to go bowling with friends. The sun was high and piercingly strong, as it usually is in the central plains - there isn’t the smoggy gossamer that Toronto has to mute the sun’s rays - and the quality of light was dreamy and narcotic. Daydreaming was interrupted by what sounded like an injured animal. I looked over and saw a native man wearing a pink, intensely frayed sweater. He seemed to be trying to open his car door, and two men (friends?) seemed to be trying to play-wrestle with him.
It wasn’t until I saw the flash of sun off of the handcuffs that I realized it was two undercover police officers trying to arrest the Man In Pink. They scuffled and awkwardly grd with each other, and if you didn’t think about it in the context of an arrest, it almost looked like three good ol’ buddies just goofing around. But the Man In Pink kept making this sound: high, keening, wounded. He fell down. One of the police officers fell on top of him. He got up and staggered a few steps. Fell again. And as the undercover police finally pulled the Man down, one of the police finally said something: “Give up. Please give up.”
I turned my head away and kept walking.
