Jerry Davis - Random Acts.pdf - Jerry Davis - allforjesus2001

RANDOM ACTS

1. LITTLE RED LIGHTS

HAVE YOU SEEN A

LITTLE RED LIGHT?

If you have, you'll know it,

and if you want to share your

experience with others who

have seen and heard the same

thing then come to 225 W.

Poplar Street,Berkeley , at

8:30 PMonFriday 6/20/84 .

Page 1

The building at225 W. Poplar Street is an ugly Co-Op meeting

hall with brown-painted stucco walls and a flat roof that's

trimmed in orange. Nervous-looking people stand on the front lawn

smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices; they watch Tom, Pris

and I with haunted expressions as we pull up in Tom's car. Tom

looks back at them and they turn quickly away, staring at their

own feet, a companion's elbow, a tree . . . anything but us. As we

get out of the car and walk up the rough, rock-imbedded concrete

sidewalk toward them, they move away.

Tom nudges me. "If they kick me out, I want you to stay. Say

you don't know me. Okay?"

I nod slightly. We've been over this before --- they'd

already told him they don't want publicity, even though they'd

been putting up those weird signs all over town. A reporter from

the Berkeley Barb would not be welcome.

The inside the building is dim and smells of marijuana. There

are folding metal chairs set up in rows, and at the front of the

room there's a cheap utilitarian table and an obviously hand-built

podium that's wired for sound. All throughout the room people

gather in little groups, whispering, and one mustachioed man

dressed in black is lighting candles and placing them on the cheap

table. Everyone glances at us and at each other but they avoid

direct eye contact.

I lean over and whisper into Pris's ear. "Boy, do these

people know how to party."

Page 2

Pris grins. This brightens my mood a bit, but only for a

while; the place has a feeling of musty, suppressed dread, and I'm

beginning to wonder if we've stumbled into some sort of satanic

cult. Tom is quiet, taking it all in; his eyes are like camera

lenses, and they affect people the same way a camera does. They've

very blue, and he stares with such an intensity and clarity of

focus that they put people on the defensive. He's also a big guy,

with big square shoulders --- he's not really muscular, and he's

not fat, he's just big. He dwarfs Pris, who stands between us,

touching both of us. She watches him and then watches what he's

watching, as if trying to fathom how he sees things. Occasionally

she glances at me and flashes her brilliant little Pris-smile,

which always sends a little thrill though my nerves. I watch her,

and see she's breathing fast and shaking. It makes me want to hold

her, an urge that never quite leaves me when she's around.

Pris taps on Tom's arm and whispers, "Isn't that the bum that

hangs out on your front steps?"

Tom and I look over; in the back corner of the large, dim

room, in the darkest part, is a thin man standing by himself. He's

facing the front with a mask-like face and piercing, beady eyes.

He's dressed in an old Army jacket and tattered pants, and his

hair hangs in oily strings to one side of his forehead. Yes,

that's our bum. He's acting strangely calm tonight --- it's odd to

see him standing still, not moving a muscle, not even talking to

himself. The only time I've seen our bum motionless is when he's

Page 3

asleep in the bushes next to the steps of our apartment building

--- other than that he's always moving, always doing something

. . . usually something mindless, like dragging things out of the

public trash cans and playing with used straws and rubber bands.

The mustachioed man in black finishes his candle-lighting and

then takes quick steps to the door. At the door, he glances at his

watch for about twenty seconds then looks up, grunting. "Excuse

me," he says to the people loitering outside. "Meeting's about to

start." Turning from the door, he takes more large, quick steps to

the table, where he takes a seat. The people around us find a seat

and settle down. Tom, Pris and I take seats toward the back.

Someone closes the door to the room and the only thing that breaks

the sudden silence is a few low whispers.

The man in black clears his throat then introduces himself as

Bob Thorn, then he introduces the two dumpy-looking women who have

positioned themselves next to him asVirginia Beach and Lori

Angstrom. Pris and I share a glance and a stifled laugh at

"Virginia Beach." Jokes would come from that later.Virginia

stands up and positions herself behind the podium, clearing her

throat into the microphone. "I assume everyone here has seen the

little red light?"

There is a general nodding of heads, and a few muttered

admissions.

"I see a member of the press has shown up,"Virginia says,

looking straight at Tom. "Is that because you've seen the light,

or are you here to do a story?"

Page 4

"I'm here to find out what this is about," Tom says. "I'm

just curious. I mean, your signs are all over the place."

"I'll tell you what it's about," Virginia Beach says with

hostility. "For the past five weeks there has been a freak

occurrence in this area where a tiny, bright light appears out of

nowhere in someone's house or office. It lasts anywhere from a

minute to three hours, and is often accompanied by disembodied

voices." She pauses, glaring at him. "This meeting is to give

those of us who have experienced this phenomenon an opportunity to

share our experience with others, and hopefully ease our anxieties

and neutralize our trauma."

"Trauma?"

"Yes, trauma. For some of us it's been a very intense,

unpleasant experience, a breakdown of reality. But it's hard to

explain this to someone who hasn't experienced it. Your presence

here may intimidate some of us from openly expressing ourselves.

We are not seeking attention. One of your articles in the Barb

would certainly bring about public ridicule, and at this stage

that is something we are not ready to deal with."

"You're speaking for everybody." Tom looks around.

"I'm anticipating their best interests."

"Then you're asking me to leave?"

The woman's expression closes down like a mask. "No. This is

a public meeting. I'm just hoping you'll understand the

situation."

Page 5

Jerry Davis - Random Acts.pdf

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