Peaceable Socializing High Above City’S Hum

It’s not easy to see into parked cars in the dark.

And checking too closely can invite unpleasantness.

But it didn’t appear that anybody at the overlook was making out. At least not right at that moment.

Saturday night, a few minutes before 11, eight or 10 vehicles were parked at that one prominent Cliff Drive scenic viewpoint. (OK, maps of the South Hill say it’s actually Cliff Avenue. But who do you know who calls it that?)

Over on the west end of the small parking area, about 10 teenage boys talked and laughed. Glowing red dots pinpointed the smokers.

It smelled like tobacco.

They weren’t being rowdy or boisterous. But neither did they seem awed by the light show spread out to the north below.

They could have been standing around and leaning against fenders outside a supermarket.

At the opposite end of the parking area, two guys who might have been 20 looked out at the electrified city and took turns taking pulls from a long bottle. The girls they had arrived with stood off by themselves.

Someone turned up an oldies station and Rick Nelson’s “Travelin’ Man” intruded on the quiet.

Someone else cranked up a rap recording. The throbbing song made heavy demands on the lyrical potential of the rhymes-with-witch word.

But then, after a moment, quiet returned.

It was a small miracle.

You could hear people cough.

A low hum floated off the city down below.

And a girl’s staccato laugh hung in the night air as if it were an electronically altered movie sound effect.

Two couples emerged from down below the lip of the overlook. Carrying lawn chairs, they got in a car and left.

At about 10 minutes past 11, these incredibly bright white and yellow lights illuminated the parking area. It was as if malevolent space aliens had arrived to pick up some fresh meat.

But it wasn’t visitors from another galaxy. It was uniformed neighborhood security guards.

Three got out of their cars and calmly announced that they were there to enforce the 11 p.m. curfew.

“This place closes?” one boy asked.

“Every night at 11,” answered one of the guards.

With a remarkable absence of grumbling, everyone departed.

You could hear car doors close and engines start.

Down below, off in the near distance, North Division was a ribbon of light.