Potential Shooter

I live inside an invisible kiddy bubble of comfortable existence, blown gently from a plastic loop, drifting on a breeze. It’s my safe place where life is usually predictable. The bubble flexes as it floats, malleable, fragile, yet somehow resilient.

My bubble has burst before. I know the consequences. The grief, the fear, the effort it takes to carefully puff another into existence. Sometimes I press tenderly on the film I designed to protect myself from another burst; reassuring myself because I’m not sure I can survive another disintegration.

My bubble didn’t pop last weekend, but a sharp pin pushed that membrane inward. Dented it. Threatened to explode and disintegrate it.

The farmers’ market is a happy, indulgent place, full of smiles, lingering conversations, cotton candy -- treats and treasures for everyone.

I offer treats in the form of grass-fed beef and lamb. Customers who come to my booth smile.

So when a man began yelling and threatening to shoot people, a strangely calm, controlled and disbelieving evacuation collected behind the safety of trees and trailers at the south end of the street.

No raised voices, no bullhorns of authority, no running.

Just uniformed officers pointing semi-automatic rifles at a balcony of a tall apartment building that rises behind vendors.

Blue and red lights flashed, a little boy with big eyes questioning as his mother hustled him out of the potential line of fire, bewildered murmurs. I listened to comments that assigned blame for this situation and realized explanations make our bubbles seem safer, make the fragile film seem more durable.

People offered solutions, too. Most of them involved guns that people were packing in a boot or pocket. Elevating this situation did not seem to be necessary or prudent, but we all have heard of instances when it was.

I was surprised at the muddle of emotions I felt. I’m more of a fighter than a runner, but I didn’t argue with the evacuation. I stood protected behind a trailer with friends. I felt the frustration and desperation that the potential shooter must be feeling to create this scene, although I had no idea what caused it. His bubble must have popped, overwhelming him.

The potential shooter obviously needed help, not a bullet. I hoped he would not pull a trigger. I mentally willed the police to make choices that would turn out to be the best during a tense, dynamic situation.

I became curious about the strategies police were using to diffuse the situation. Surreptitiously, I looked for clues to piece that puzzle together.

I was surprised when the vendors at the south end of the two-block street were allowed to return while the vendors at the north end were not. Clearly, the south end of the street was within a potential line of fire. Nobody declared any of us safe. People just began meandering back to their booths. Then a few customers began to stand there, too.

Officers continued to hold their rifle sights on the balcony. I wondered if their arms were getting tired. Someone stretched a pink rope between the cotton candy trailer and another concession to delineate the safe zone.

The vendor next to me found that someone had stolen an entire flat of his raspberries.

Rumors flew. Texts pinged. The news had made it to Facebook.

We all sighed with relief that nobody on Facebook had actually seen a gun in the yeller’s hands. We agreed that it is pathetic that our information came from social media, yet good news in real time reinforced our fragile bubbles.

Then a police officer strolled down the street, savoring cotton candy on a stick. We must be safe again.

My bubble survived the dent. This time.