Tazed

Squashed in between the N2 and Main Road is the teeny tiny suburb/village of Observatory, where I live and work. Those who are generous describe Obs as bohemian, vibey, a hub of student and hippie activity. Less generous descriptions would have you believe it's a little more edgy than your average cup of tea. Last week on my daily commute to work (all three minutes of it, on foot) I walked past two homeless residents embroiled in a passionate altercation. The man and woman were in a rugby-style tackle, screaming and shaking one another; hitting wasn't really possible because their limbs were too tied up in the wrestle. It was difficult to say who was at fault, or who was on the offensive. I stopped with another passer-byer and exchanged a "should we do something?" glance.

Fortunately, before we had to generate an answer, one of the local security guards started crackling up to them. I say crackling because he was waving his tazer in front of him, complete with white-blue crackles of taze. He approached the pair and connected the tazer to any body part he could access in between the flailing, squirming, moving-as-one mass. The tazer wasn't strong enough to do anything but give them each a surprised look and create a few milliseconds of pause before they continued with the abuse. The mechanics on the corner didn't look up from their work, another local man with a trolley walked right past, mumbling to himself. The security guard persisted.

It was absurd. The whole scene. The struggle, the authority, the control and un-control of human action. Foucault would have had a field day. But it was just me there, not Foucault, so I just shook my head, looked around for a bit and returned to my commute.