BLOOD IN BOHEMIA

Killings in the bars, robberies in the alleys, and blood in the street. What was once a quaint bohemian suburb on Indianapolis’ northside has become known as the local place to get shot. Residents of the city mourn the souring of the neighborhood lamenting that it used to be a charming area before the recent spike in crime. Broad Ripple, Indiana has long been known as a party destination. Its main strip, Broad Ripple Avenue, is home to dozens of bars, taverns, and nightclubs. On weekends people flock from all over the city to raise hell in Broad Ripple. The aftermath of these weekends leaves our home trashed. A walk down the strip on a Monday morning would be a tramp through piles of vomit and broken glass. This isn’t the case during the week, however. The borough changes for those two days and becomes a hotbed of wild activity.

Monday through Friday afternoon Broad Ripple is a quiet place to live. Families play in their front yards. A guy can walk up to the grocery store and back seeing kind faces all around. The nights don’t bring much danger either, excluding what is to be expected in an area as metropolitan as Broad Ripple. On a Tuesday night, you can sit out late on the patio of your favorite bar enjoying a drink and a meal. When you’re finished you can walk down the street to your car without fear of finding it with a smashed-out windshield. The neighborhood is heavily art-focused, you’ll see it wherever you go. Murals painted by local artists cover the walls and fences. Coffee shops display and sell prints made by regular customers. We have our occasional issues but the shit doesn’t hit the fan until Friday night.

A weekend in Broad Ripple is an event to be seen. The strip fills making the streets sometimes impossible to navigate. The bars are packed with people downing booze, shouting over one another, and causing scenes anywhere that isn't already hosting one. At night the clubs open bringing in another wave of partygoers with something to prove. Street racing soon takes over the strip making a drive through a serious safety risk. Disputes are sought out and if there's none to be found one can always be made. Fights break out on street corners that end in police response—the exchange of party drugs incites shootings that break headlines every few months. Even a tame Saturday afternoon on the strip is a surreal experience.

Saturday, August 3, my cousin and I decided to dose ourselves and head up to the strip for a drink. The walk from my place is the perfect distance so that just as you’re emerging onto Broad Ripple Avenue from the Monon Trail you’ll begin peaking. This evening we had each taken a considerable dose of DMT before our walk. Now it was dyeing the world purple as spinning fractals began to wave around my vision like crashing tides. We waited at the corner of the avenue and Guliford when screaming filled the air. Spilling out of Kilroys was an army of people wearing uniforms of red, white, and blue. The mob, easily at least thirty people, pounded down the sidewalk chanting “USA, USA, USA”. The crowd had just witnessed one of our athletes winning gold at the Olympics and had decided to let the entire street know by screaming drunken remixes of the national anthem and blowing air horns. The light changed allowing us to cross the packed street just as some women standing next to us began to join in on the shouting. We walked down Guilford past brothers where a strange dreamy cover of some radio hit backtracked a fist fight breaking out in the game area. My cousin tried to get my attention, smacking my shoulder and saying my name. When I was able to pull my attention from the altercation I saw another group of people at the end of the sidewalk standing in the street. Six women moved in a synchronized dance which to me looked like rectangular ripples in an orange puddle. They were moving to a song however the bass was boosted so high I could only make out the beat. Just then something caught my eye to the left: an ambulance sitting in the fire station's driveway with its lights on. I knew what was about to happen but all I could choke out was “ambulance” before the thing peeled out. It threw its siren on blaring down the street forcing traffic to screech out of its way. We made a sharp left turn around the traffic the women were holding up. We rushed along Westfield Boulevard desperate to get off the street when we were stopped and forced to shimmy out of the way. A gray sedan cruised down the sidewalk towards us with one tire on the street and one tire eight inches higher on the curb. We ran into the first place we could, a pizza shop near the far end of the borough. We hunkered down for an hour while people screeched at waitresses and sang loudly to friends. The trip was harsh, it took everything in me not to break out into wild laughter at any moment. The walls were plastered with wallpaper that seemed to morph into eyes when you looked directly at it. An old man at the table behind us yipped like a wounded animal at a waitress when she forgot to leave him his straw then made a guttural groaning noise while pointing at his cup when she looked back at him. Our food was served to us right at the beginning of a freak out about my hands being on backward. We began shoveling it down immediately with no regard for the skin it was searing off the roofs of our mouths. We couldn’t taste a bite but that didn’t matter, when you’re tripping that hard you eat for texture, not flavor. The food settled us enough to get on our feet and sprint back to the trail. We moved as fast as our drug-addled legs could carry us through the streets filled with motorists attempting to get as close to each other's bumpers without making contact as possible. We disappeared back into the scrub of the trail just as another shriek echoed over the strip. We staggered back down the wooded path cackling about the freakshow we had just witnessed. This is far from the case during the week though.

Not three days later we made another walk up to the strip. This time the streets were empty save for a few cars passing by on their lunch breaks. We walked over to a hot chicken restaurant without witnessing even a single-blown red light. We got our food and ate it in peace inside the dining area. When we were done we walked around to a few stores then got back on the trail and went home. The same street at the same time of day, the only difference being the presence of visitors from outside of the borough.

The issue of Broad Ripple's safety lies heavily in the hands of the establishments that draw the weekend crowds in. They are aware of this and some action has been taken to help curb the issues. Unfortunately, as long as this scene exists so too will the problems it brings. The weekend parties are slowly killing the strip. Every month more businesses shut down only to be replaced by another fruitless venture. If the issue is not addressed head-on it will destroy the area. The effects have taken a forceful hold already as business owners beg for people to return to the area assuring that it’s safe now. Soon enough the party will come to an end whether that be by choice or not. The clock is ticking in rhythm with the blood that is pumping out of the partygoers and into our streets.

Dusty Hayes is an indigenous writer and psychedelic advocate living in Indianapolis, Indiana. He spends his days there engaging in Broad Ripple's bohemian culture. He never pursued a higher education in writing, choosing instead to hone his writing style independently. He writes about social injustice, mindful living, and psychedelia. Recently he has published his first book Rock and Terror : A Psychonomic Look at the Effects of Psilocybin. A gonzo journalistic documentation of a mushroom trip that gives the reader a full rundown on the substance and its effects. You can find him and his work on Twitter and anywhere ebooks are sold.