It's often said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, I guess sometimes even a thousand words are not enough.
As I drove away from my apartment this morning to work, I drove past what would look to most people like a happy, charming scene. A man, probably in his mid 20s, was taking a picture of a woman, also probably in her mid 20s as she held a cute, blond-haired boy who looked to be about four.
They all smiled as the man -- I'd assume him to be the father -- motioned for the woman (mom?) and the boy to get closer together. They posed as he snapped the picture. The young boy clutched a small backpack; it looked like it was his first day of preschool. He beamed happily, the way a 4-year-old should.
This picture, to the naked eye, was of a happy, joyous young family. Even the coldest of hearts would have to melt a little looking upon this scene.
But as I drove past, I did not smile.
All I could think about was what this family went through about a month ago.
--
It was about 9:30 p.m., and I had just shuttled my two laundry baskets full of newly-clean clothing across the complex from the laundry room. I carried in the first basket, and heard a man and a woman yelling as I walked from my car. Nonetheless, I kept going, deposited the first load inside, and went out to get the second.
In the minute or so it took to go back outside to retrieve the other basket, the argument had accelerated. I looked up and saw the altercation -- through an open second-story window on the other side of the parking lot. The man and the woman, the same young couple, were not smiling. They were yelling, obviously very upset.
Two young women, shivering from the cold, were outside watching the fight from the lawn between my apartment building and the parking lot. One of them held a cordless phone.
"She'd better get the hell out of there," said one of the women outside. The man in the apartment -- who was about 6 foot 2 and was no wimp at about 250 pounds -- had a serious size advantage on the 5-foot-7 woman he was arguing with. The argument continued, out of window sight.
"Oh my God! Let go of me!" the woman upstairs screamed. I could not see what was going on -- but it was obvious the argument was beyond verbal.
"I hope the f---ing cops get here soon," said the woman on the lawn who held the phone.
"Have you called the police?" I asked, still holding laundry load No. 2. She said she had. I therefore returned to my apartment and dropped off the laundry, but I returned outside after putting on my jacket, which I should have been wearing in the first place.
"Where are the f---ing cops?" one of the women on the lawn said. The three of us stood there on the lawn; I felt very powerless. The women on the lawn said they had seen the young man hit the young woman; the couple kept yelling as we spoke.
"You're scaring him!" the woman upstairs cried. At this point, we did not know who "him" was.
As this went on, a car drove up and honked. The woman upstairs went to the window and yelled down to the lot, "He won't let me go!"
Then, the large, shirtless man went up to the woman, said something, and pushed her to the ground. The woman cried out, and I felt my heart leap into my throat. Was this really happening?
As I stood there dumbfounded, one of the women on the lawn mumbled something about needing to do something, and sprinted into the middle of the parking lot. "You leave her alone, you asshole!" she yelled upstairs. "The cops are on their way!"
The man upstairs turned his gaze from his wife to the woman in the parking lot.
"I did not touch her!" he said, holding his hands up in the air.
"Bulls---!" the woman downstairs retorted. "We SAW YOU hit her!"
After this exchange, things quieted down for a minute or two. Soon, the woman from upstairs emerged crying from the apartment, holding a duffel bag in her left arm. In her right hand was the hand of her young son. He looked shocked, as if his whole world was collapsing around him.
The woman loaded some things into the running car, looked at the woman holding the phone, and said no words of thanks. "I do not want him to got to jail," she said as she got into the car. They then drove off.
Meanwhile, I kept watch on the burly man upstairs, who had put on a shirt and was running around the apartment.
"He's gonna take off," I said. The other woman on the lawn said she hoped the police would get here soon.
A few minutes later, the man walked out of his apartment, and hopped in his car. The police were nowhere in sight. I tentatively approached his car, and wrote down the license plate number as it sped off.
About 5 minutes later, the Reno police finally showed up -- about 20 minutes after they were originally called. Two officers came up, and we told them the story. Politely, they took the license plate number and knocked on the apartment door to make sure nobody was home. But they told us there was nothing they could do.
"Without a victim or a suspect, our hands are tied," one of the young officers told me as he handed back to me the tattered piece of paper on which I wrote the license plate number.
They left, and the two women and I returned to our apartment. After about a day, the man's car returned; apparently, so have the woman and the child.
To this day, my blood boils every time I drive past that car.
--
This morning, however, my blood does not boil. Instead, my heart sinks.
For I know this charming picture of a young, happy family is to some extent is false. I know too much. The thousand words this picture is telling me are a lie.
Unfortunately, I can't shake the image of that same young boy on that chilly night one month ago. The fear in his eyes, because he did not understand why mommy and daddy were fighting, and why daddy was hurting mommy.
That picture in my head is certainly worth a thousand words. Words I don't like one bit.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan. His column appears Tuesdays in the Tribune.