GUNSHOTS AND SKINHEADS

8/29/07
by:Adam Floyd

Gunshots ring out against the Utah night, the Utah night? Two men
hurtle past the bus and onto a porch. I role over and find myself
laying on my glasses, which I was dreaming about only seconds before,
no wait "was that gunshots?" Doug gives me a silent "yes." For a few
moments nothing transpired, the door to the house opened and a large
shirtless man appeared. The following moments were a slight blur,
profanities mixed heavily with every form of the term respect, until
the men spilled into the darkness laying behind a nearby tree began to
fighting audibly. This interaction quickly moved audibly back to the
porch, where the homeowner appeared very reluctant and upset that his
visitors had been shooting on his street. Although not generally a
fan of the police force, I was certainly content with their rapid
arrival fifteen minutes later. After circling the block several times
allowing the suspects to a form a plan and leave, they arrived and the
perpetrators spokesman met them. I was hoping they would hang around
long enough for us to make our presence known and leave under a semi
police escort. But they were not lured in by the hippyesque nature of
our bus and after their short stop, they departed and the suspects
returned to arguing on the porch.

Wes reminded us of his conversation earlier in the evening with one
of the neighbors, he awoke to find a man shaking and pounding the bus,
the man quickly acknowledged himself by stating menacingly, "Who's bus
is parked in front of my house?' Wes was sleeping on the sofa , he
sat up to face a tall skinny man devoid of any hair or shirt save for
his trailing goatie falling nearly to his chest. After learning that
we were from Jacksonville, his tone changed as he showed his support
in the statement, "How bout them Jaguars," The menacing tone quickly
returned as he barked," are you black?" Wes replied no, and the next
question quickly followed suit, "are you white,?" and in a saving
grace Wes replied yes and offered the man a pound (A type of
handshake) through the window.It was not until 5:30 AM and the firing of gunshots that we
reconsidered the implications of this interaction. As neighbors
emerged I thought the situation would be on the upturn, concerned
citizens about to convey their dissatisfaction with the situation, but
an overabundance of bald heads informed us that this was not an
everyday neighborhood, but one somehow filled with white supremacists.
While we had silently discussed driving away, the group of skinheads
standing at the bus door was somewhat distracting from our goal.
Whispers whipped incessantly through he bus, as Wes lay attentively on
the sofa and Doug and I bent low in the aisle, watching through the
open window, involuntarily ducking whenever one of the skinheads
walked over to the bus. Our desire to leave was halted by the need to
warm up the glow plugs with a loud buzzer for 30 seconds, before
disengaging our air brakes and backing up before pulling around a
small possible skinhead owned vehicle. The situation took an odd turn when the skinhead who was bleeding
called his mother grasping for control as the sobs and tears flowed,
informing her that he was a "Fuck up", his girlfriend was mad with him
and that he was going to the hospital, I realized what power is
offered in the safety of a group as the man pleaded his case with
his mother before beseechingly asking the other men standing around,
unable to hide the trepidation in his voice, if they would go to the
hospital with him as he had never had stitches before. If ever
there was a moment it was now, Doug emerged from his bunk, sat
purposefully at the wheel and started it up. Avoiding the glances of
the surrounding skinheads, we backed up swung around the small car,
and headed out of Odgen, Utah.