"We'll never top last year," I told my friend John as we were driving down to Galveston Saturday evening for Mardi Gras.
"No, I think you're right," he replied. "Hopefully I won't fall on my face and chip my tooth this year."
"Or get mugged," I added.
"I doubt Chris will get patted down by the SWAT team this year," he said.
"Or Sutton will luck his way out of an M.I.P," I added.
"Or you'll get a knife pulled on you by a gangster wannabe," John said.
"Ain't Mardi Gras grand?" we said in unison.
Our group arrived at the Strand at about 8 p.m. Kevin and his friends had a rendezvous with some of their buddies. John and I had a date with some beer.
As the evening progressed and the alcohol flowed freely, the women became looser. By about nine o'clock the breasts were plentiful. John and I wandered around the Strand, drinking beer, enjoying the sights and chatting with the other partygoers. We ended up on the southeast corner of 22nd street and the Strand, about 20 feet east of the intersection. As the party swung into high gear, we leaned against the building behind us.
"Do you want to move closer to the street?" John asked.
"Nah," I said. "Let's stay right here. This spot's good enough."
We stayed there, leaning against the wall for the next several minutes, discussing the everyday, mundane, forgettable things that people discuss.
Our conversation was rudely interrupted by what sounded like a string of firecrackers popping about ten yards directly in front of us on the street. "What kind of idiot lights fireworks in the middle of a crowd?" I thought. John grabbed me from behind and pulled me back against the wall and down onto the ground. That was when I realized that I'd heard gunfire.
Within seconds, everyone in earshot was on the ground too, madly scrambling away from the shots. I saw one man instinctively grab his girlfriend and fall on top of her, using his body as a shield to prevent her from being struck by stray bullets. A young, blond teenage boy, about sixteen, fell against me, preventing me from seeing anything. There was an eerie silence for a fraction of a second.
"Let's get out of here," said John. We got up and quickly walked east down the Strand, staying close to the wall, trying to avoid getting trampled by the mob. "In here," John said, stepping into a doorway. We huddled together, out of the flow of bodies blindly pushing forward, trying to get our bearings and see exactly what was going on.
"There's someone lying on the pavement," John said. "I hope he's okay." Across the street on the balcony, policemen were rapidly forcing revelers, whose brightly painted faces and masks could not hide their fear and bewilderment, inside. I heard one mother explain to her children that they couldn't go into the street because someone was out there shooting people.
Secure in the doorway, we waited out the chaos for as long as we could, unable to see what was going on because of the mob in front of us. By this time, several officers were on the scene. They began trying to disperse the crowd. Those who wanted to leave (including John and me) were prevented by the hundreds of curious people who heard all the commotion and wanted to see what was happening. They surged forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of blood on the pavement or, perhaps, a dead body, as we tried to make our way through them.
I still don't know what exactly happened. We were right there; we couldn't tell what was going on. As we drove back to Houston, thoughts kept racing through my mind. What if we'd been up at the curb? What if we'd been out in the crowd? What if?
The Sunday Chronicle ran a short piece on the shooting. One person killed, two wounded. More details to come.
I would like to tell the gunman (and it was a man - women don't fire guns into a crowd) that he's a man. You sure showed 'em. Nobody's gonna diss you or flirt with your girlfriend or touch you or drink your beer or whatever it was they did that pissed your punk ass off. Firing a bullet into someone is such a manly thing to do. I hope you're proud of yourself. You should be.
And I'll give you credit. Murder definitely tops everything that happened last year.
Pennell is a Senior English major and a die-hard supporter or the Brady Bill.