A Gun In Your Face: Welcome To Inman Park

Last night’s armed robbery – attempted armed robbery? Who knows, but a woman had a gun stuck in her face, or was heard to say that she did – has yet to hit the news wires. Hard to say if it ever will. Which is why I’m writing about it now, along with the fact that all this took place just below our second-floor patio. On a busy street. With the usual screaming drunks still milling outside Barcelona Wine Bar less than a block away, waiting for the valet guys to bring their cars.

So the shouts didn’t mean much, at first.

I was half asleep; Joyce, in the living room, heard them. First she heard a squeal of seeming terror that girls (I know I’m supposed to call them women. They are girls) make around here when someone says something to them over their cell phones at which they want to fake surprise. Or when, as I said, they are drunk with friends, clopping down the sidewalk in their heels. Or when, as it seems to have turned out, someone sticks a gun in their friend’s face.

After the squeal, a more coherent yell: “She’s f***ing pregnant!”

The yeller must have meant this to convey, “My friend is pregnant, and therefore you should not shoot her in the face and/or take her money”: rules of robbery that criminals in Atlanta and everywhere else ignore all the time.

Joyce then saw the pair of women clopping back toward Barcelona – running from the gunman, it would be said later. She saw the guy across the street outside of his apartment barking “Hey! Hey!” in the other direction. At the gunman, I guess.

Eventually a large, bored-seeming security guard, the one I’ve seen around the premises before, showed up, Joyce said. Frantic descriptions were given of events, of the gunman, and of his accomplice: a female who wore something white. The security guard asked, “Did you call 911?” and walked away, shaking his head.

A few minutes later, the cops arrived. They did their cop routine, dashing around madly and talking into their radios. Joyce double-bolted the front door. She even locked our bedroom door.

I don’t know if there was an arrest. In truth, I don’t know if any of this really happened, though it seems like an odd thing for people to make up, and from other events lately I can say that the neighborhood absolutely is no longer safe, if it ever was. I am certain I didn’t dream the whole thing, since I couldn’t get to sleep.

Today there was a cop on what once was called, when they did it, “foot patrol." He was grim and concerned, nodding protectively to those he met. People didn't seem to buy it. 

Maybe there will be a news report tomorrow, or next week. Or maybe it’s just not worth mentioning anymore.