I took some haphazard, grainy video of the reporters at work, just to augment my poor memory. I had emailed my editor about the incident, and felt the exasperation in his one-line response, “So write it!” But I knew early on that I wasn’t going to break this story, or even turn it in the same day.
Across the street, a crusty punk couple were sitting against a wall with a black dog. An elegantly dressed woman in her thirties was yelling at them.
“Listen, I live here! None of this kind of thing happened around here until you all got here. I’m sorry about your friend. Obviously, I feel terrible about what happened to the dog, but you can’t live on the street! You and your friends are making a mess of this place!”
She turned sharply and walked on.
They shrugged off the browbeating.
Linda Lynch, the female half of the couple, muttered, “Who is she? Crusties have been here probably long before she even got here.”