Michael Jackson Is Dead.

A storm had threatened in the middle of the afternoon - the atmosphere darkened, wind whipped the tree tops, and, long after, long unfolding black rumbles of distant thunder followed silent flashbulbs of lightning.

The storm never came but passed Monroe Avenue and the city by.

At the height of the storm that wasn't, and through the usual avenue traffic, a ladder truck and hose truck from Alexander Street station raced through the zone with lights and sirens and blaring horns at cross streets and went up and over the Expressway bridge to Upper Monroe. The sirens rivaled the wind, the horns seemed more threatening than the slow peels of thunder and the red flashing lights were more present and constant than the isolated instants of rare lightning.

As the red machines hurtled and bullied through the traffic in desperate rush, it was strange seeing their crews sitting up in them wearing such relaxed and workaday demeanors.

Five minutes or so later a Rural/Metro ambulance returned down the hill and avenue in the opposite direction with its lights and its thinly wailing siren but it wasn't certain whether the run was part of the same job or another emergency altogether.

Except for the inconvenienced drivers made to pull over and allow them to pass and a few pedestrians who waited and used the wake of the trucks' passage to cross a traffic-free avenue, it is unlikely Monroers paid the sirens any especial attention. They minded no more the seeming approach of a storm.

They never do.

Long before evening and the setting of the sun, the sky cleared. Mid-evening was serene on Monroe and foot traffic and cars passing up and down the avenue seemed to assume a leisurely gait in agreement with the long and transfixing sunlight. Anyone who recalled the afternoon would have found the leisure and calm remarkable.

The light even set in amber and isolated in place a near fight that threatened to break out at the corner of Boardman across from Oxford's Pub. It was between a two-by-four wielding angry man on the corner and the passenger of a mini-van pulled up to the avenue. The van's turn signal flashed and flashed as the driver leaned forward over the steering wheel peering for a lapse in the traffic and his passenger leaned out the door exchanging hot threats and excoriations with the Two-By-Four Man.

"Jus' Turn! TURN! Go On!" a woman on the other side of the avenue shouted.

And, soon, the driver did.

After, there was a flurry of comment from concerned parties lingering before the first house on Boardman and among the loungers on and standing about the chairs set out around the corner in front of Rookie's Pizza. Two-By-Four Man marched about and, eventually, tossed his lumber away in the alley behind the pizza place. He returned to the corner and passed through the gang in the chairs to go back inside the Greek restauant, Astoria, which shares an entry with Rookie's.

A big bellied lounger on the bus bench at the opposite corner of Boardman, commented with arms wide over the back of the bench,

"And it isn't even ninety degrees!"

A Rochester Blue-and-White cruised by and didn't stop.

The early evening crowd at Oxford's was largely made up of young people in bold shirts of several colors that had crests over their hearts. Their backs were white with the logos of beer companies and the crests read Summer Ball 2009.

"Kick Ball," one of them explained; with a gesture up and down the avenue, he added, "Bars sponsor us."

"Yeah, I saw a lot of you guys out here Tuesday night."

"Yeah, Tuesday the really competitive teams play, I think."

From a car pulling up to the curb a girl wearing one of the pink shirts got out. She had on especially tight, especially slight shorts and all the street eyes followed her into Oxford's door.

"Aw, that's healthy!" someone commented for all.

"Really!"

Thursday is not one of the major drinking nights on the Avenue but all evening long and into the night, crowds were coming out, walking down the dry pavements with their hands in the pockets of long, plaid patterned shorts and khaki cargoes making the bars their destination.

The people coming out had their reasons and seemed to treat the evening like any Friday or Saturday night.

After hours there was even a small but significant influx of Hip Hop thumping cars to Mark's and Gitsis' from other zones of the city. And, though they had been out in force Wednesday night when the bars offered their specials, the Blue-and-Whites were taken by apparent surprise, put in few appearances and were not needed.

Steve, the Old Guy, came down to the street from his room earlier than his usual and in a mood.

He walked down through the zone and made his late-night purchases early at the No Name Convenience at Averill and across the Avenue at the 7/Eleven.

Leaving the No Name place, he even commented,

"I'm out earlier tonight."

He knew that the owner marked his arrival as time to close for the night.

"Yes," the owner agreed in his accented voice. "You are."

The Comedian, one of the streets more entertaining panhandlers, circled about on the corner of Rowley and up on the sidewalk on his bicycle wanting to get through to the line up out in front of the Angry Duck. He had a joke for them but a stubby bear-like dude with a black beard and a ball cap was blocking his passage.

"DON'TCHA WANNA MAKE TEN CENTS," the dude was laughing combatively. "C'MON! Y'KIN LICK MY ASS FOR TEN CENTS!"

Coming back around and down off the sidewalk out into the avenue on his bike, the Joker almost ran into Steve and excused himself with his usual grin in his voice and on his narrow crumpled dark face.

"S'Okay!"

The line-up sucking on their cigarettes looked between embarrassed and amused behind the angry dude.

He turned to them and in the same loud voice proclaimed,

"Y'OUGHTA PAY ME KEEPIN' THAT BUM FROM HITTIN' Y'UP!" He was certain that, "'AT GUY'S NO CRACK ADDICT HE DON'T WANTA MAKE TEN CENTS!"

Faintly laughing, one of the Ducks sort of agreed, went along,

"It's such a sweet deal, too!"

"DAMN RIGHT! THAT GUY'S NO CRACK HEAD!"

It was still too early to judge the Last Call Crowd at Oxford's and Steve, the Old Guy, went on along to Starbuck's. On the deserted patio in front, he piled his bags on the metal corner table and turned a chair to be in the area light from the corner of the Plum House next door. Across Monroe and half way down to Oxford's at the other end of the block, the newly opened Standard Lounge was doing business inside but there were and had been all evening no crowds in front of its entry way. Perhaps its patrons were taking seriously that whole 'Lounge' thing. With Monroe Mart and everything else closed for the night, the Oxford Street end of the block is relatively quiet after the last bus of the night pulls up or passes by the stop in front of the convenience at ten to one.

Other than late arriving crowds with their hands in their pockets or beery singles, couples and crowds of early home-bound ex-patrons occasionally passing, there were only silently racing late night bicyclists and clattering, leg swinging skate board kids up there.

The Old Guy had brought a book in his back pack.

Eventually, as Steve should have known would happen, a passing beer-phased single came along. He was representatively moon-faced, curly haired and large size and his hands were in his pockets.

His step was slow, wandering away early from the bars, and stopped altogether on the sidewalk just the other side of the railing.

With empty confusion, he inquired,

"Wha'cha doin'?"

"Reading!"

His confusion continuing, Mr. Moon wondered, after a long moment,

"Why?"

"'Cuss there's no news on the cable!" Steve said in his mood.

Without blinking, Mr. Moon thought about that, could make no sense of it and wandered on alone homeward once more.

It was June 25th, 2009 and at Last Call at Oxford's Pub the last departing crowd of five or six young people stood about on the sidewalk until all of twenty after two or two-thirty. It was a mild night and conversation was casual among them. Few opinions of any note were expressed. Only a short round guy with big glasses was conversing, really, and he was grinning over his own brilliance.

"The guy grew up performing. He never did anything else. It has to have screwed him up, y'know? He has to have been screwed up."

He grinned, too, through a tale he'd heard about a concert in Africa.

"He goes over there - in the jungle and all. They don't even have electricity. And, they're setting up all this stuff. He puts on this show. They've never seen anything like him. They think he's a god or something. They probably still think he's a god over there!"

Steve watched them going away. They were going off to Gitsis' for garbage plates the way they always do after hours on Monroe.