The Carnival Diversion

I must have been busy making mental notes, because I didn’t even notice the approaching man. He was dark skinned, wearing a well worn t-shirt, torn jeans, and a short yet nappy Afro. He had handmade jewelry draped over his left arm and a small pack slung over his shoulder. I heard someone yell stop as I wheeled around and found myself face to face with the grinning middle-aged salesman. He held out a selection of necklaces and offered me his best price as my pulse raced and body temperature increased.

I politely declined his offer as I tried to decide how strongly to react. Then he made it easy. He let the bag slide down his right arm and made a move with his left hand to reach into it. Reacting more than thinking, I poked the muzzle of my AK-47 into the shoulder loop of the back-pack, yanked it off his arm, and tossed it ten feet over my left shoulder. With the weapon still adjacent my left shoulder, I took a step forward with my right leg and thrust the rifle butt firmly into the man’s chest – his wiry frame lifted off the ground and carried back a few feet until he landed on his ass. His head snapped back and smacked the hard ground. Stunned, he stayed on the ground and stared intently at me waiting for my next move. I drew on him and ordered him not to move as I stepped back and knelt down next to the bag. With rifle at the ready in my right hand, I opened his bag with my left. It held nothing but assorted knock-off jewels and the man’s lunch. I closed it, tossed it back to him, and told him to be on his way. Have a nice day!

            My heart once again back in my chest, I looked around to the rest of the team. Half-expecting to see looks of disdain or disapproving head shakes, I was met with nods of approval. It was Max who had warned me that many police had been killed in the line of duty for not acting quickly enough. Besides, there would be no public backlash. As long as the violence remained in the favelas, the general populace didn’t care who was harmed or how justice was enacted. Let’s just say we were not under the microscope like LAPD, and this guy would not be getting any Rodney King sympathy. I was receiving a crash course in the intensity of daily life as a beat cop in the Complexo do Alemao. In my mind I could hear Cruz repeating “tell me how you feel after our little tour today.” As I looked around at the concrete walls I wondered about the circumstances that led to the multitude of pock marks that were unmistakably put there by gunfire.

            As we walked abeam the mosque, crowds of people poured out through the ayvan onto the street. Midday prayer had just ended, and attendees were a mix of old and young, and various walks of life. There were definitely the expected poor that had long been the signature residents of the downtrodden favelas. Typical of Rio, there was no uniform skin tone associated with the ghetto. Unlike others, Brazilian culture did not hesitate to mix races. Most were olive skinned or darker, but every hue in between was represented. The only common trait in the favela was poverty. That’s what made this crowd remarkable. There was an abnormal presence of a well dressed, Persian-looking contingent. It was not their dress; they wore Western attire. Nope. It was the distinctive mustaches and facial structure. The Persians walked side by side with upscale Brazilian men. There were no women in the mix at all.

            We were about to start our route back to the station when I had the strongest feeling of déjà vu. Two men walked by carrying on an intense yet friendly conversation, and both were acutely aware of their surroundings. I could tell by their demeanor that they at least believed they were important men. This impression was solidified by the entourage that loosely surrounded them – a group of eight young men, all carrying automatic weapons that equaled ours. The officers on patrol with me surely had adrenaline pumping, but did not show it. Staying vigilant, they maintained their macho image by staring stoically, cigarettes hanging from their mouths and fingers on their triggers. While I should have shared their readiness as they watched their mirrors like hawks, I could not take my eyes off the two men they protected.