About a half-dozen floors of apartments lie on the east side of Bromsgrove Street between Pershore and Hurst Streets in Birmingham, England. On the west side of Bromsgrove is the Arcadian Centre parking deck, with two floors above it comprised of hotel rooms, each with a balcony.
It was from one of those balconies that I was able to view the clumsy ballet of the Birmingham riots. Dark-draped antagonists entered from the side stage emitting sounds of adrenalin-fueled anger and excitement, creating tension and interest in the otherwise placid plot that occurred daily on Bromsgrove in previous days, weeks, months.
So, we all drew close to our windows, stood on our balconies (or on the roof, like this fellow on the corner of Bromsgrove and Hurst) and watched, listening to the tuning of the distant oboe shouting, the violin sirens and the kettle drum helicopter blades as the house lights lowered and the next act began.
Spotlight on. Hooded figures wreck the set. "Good guy" dancers race across the stage followed by a parade of blue light. Actors spoke lines of an off-stage presence rising to dispel the terror in the wake of death. Stage empty, violins screeching, curtain drops uneven. No clear victory emerged from the resolution. Eventually, we all went home.
