Getting Shot At
March 5, 2005 - 3 AM

I ducked for cover sorta slowly, not really instinctively. After the shots and a few screams, the gang's car squealed its tires and rounded the corner in my direction, then roared past. I just sorta squatted there behind a parked car.

Not exactly 007 stuff, huh? I didn't even get a good look at 'em - I was crouching Carl hidden by car. Just another experience to add to the list.

I'm not sure what to liken it to. It's a little bit Queens, a little bit South Central. In the summer of ´98 I lived in Carson, CA, neighbor of Compton and home to do-badders and gangstas. But I never actually witnessed a shooting - just a few cops speeding here and there, as well as 6" thick bullet-proof glass at the Domino's pick-up window. In Porto Alegre, however, I only had to wait two months to live the rap music video version of a real live shooting - all of the excitement, a little of the perverse thrill, and none of the sad consequences of actually getting shot.

So, what happened exactly, you ask? Not too much, really. Alessandra and I had gone out with a few old friends of hers to a (great, by the way) barzinho called Bongo and were dancing the night away to a mix of funk flava jammed by a 3-man band, fronted by a James Blake / Lenny Kravitz look-alike. One of Alessandra's hot friends wanted to head out, so I offered to take her for a ride (home, gutterhead).

Returning to the bar after dropping her off, 6 or 7 shots rang out like a bell about 100 meters down the road at a bar spilling into the street with people. A few obligatory screams later (not by me, bastard), I was following suit and ducking behind my makeshift shield, a cheap-looking Ford or something. Not really my choice of life-saving device, but it worked out okay. Alive and kickin´, baby!

The best part was the response from the girls upon my return. A simple acknowledgment was all I got - no “Really? Right here?” - just some slow nods of the head, some shakes of disapproval, and then they got back to their business at hand - more dancing.

As I found out later, this stuff is relatively commonplace. They tell me not to wear decent clothes to soccer games, appear as a native though clearly my gait and dress betrays me. Don't take the bus by yourself at night, they say - Brazil is perigoso. Dangerous.

The movie City of God showed Rio at its worst, but I dismissed its violent imagery when I saw it in the theaters - In my 3 visits to Brazil I had never seen anything alarming. But I now realize that the talk is not just talk. Cases in point: My friend in São Paulo got his Land Rover stolen, bought another car, and got that stolen too. He drives a beat-up Jeep Wrangler now. My cousin had a gun pointed at her in the passenger seat of a Nissan, and the car was swiftly handed over to the firearm-wielding stranger - no questions asked! Another cousin almost was kidnapped, but her fiancé managed to talk the gunman into just taking the car.

This stuff happens more often than I guess I'd like to know.

To be clear, I still have not been the victim of anything more than a anti-American joke or a little aggressive panhandling, and until I am, I'll continue singing the praises of this land of the free though imperiled. But I am keen to zip up my shorts pockets and take only the money I need, take my watch off when I don't need to impress the ladies (with my ability to tell the time in Portuguese as well as the watch's sleek contours), and recognize when a brush of the backside is a “bad touch” - lest would-be thieves catch me (so to speak) with my pants down.

But I also wonder what will happen the next time Fitty's posse rounds the corner pumping out rounds. What if I'm with one of my cousins or new friends? Will I duck first, then pull them down with me? (Aren't you supposed to secure your mask first, then help others?) What if we only have a motorcycle to hide behind? What's better in that case - the spoked wheels or the solid but fuel-filled tank? Most important: Are these really the questions I should be asking on my supposed sabbatical?

Not exactly your picture of paradise, and not exactly a glowing endorsement of this country I call home. But really, friends, come to Brazil - where else can you learn to samba by dodging bullets?