John Woo on the Dan Ryan Pt. 2

So I'm writing down details as fast as possible and as legibly as numbed-by-the-cold-fingers can manage while standing in the northbound lanes of the Dan Ryan expressway around 45th Street.

The cutting wind is numbing my face at 3:30 a.m. as the mess that has blocked off the northbound local lanes of highway is explained.

About an hour before, the silver Pontiac-looking car was seen driving "suspiciously" around 50th and Clark Streets ("suspiciously" is one of those vague words that police use to say as little as possible when talking to reporters). When a squad car tried to pull the vehicle over, it sped off toward 47th Street and the entrance to the Dan Ryan Expressway. The squad car "pursued" the silver vehicle onto the expressway ("pursued" is the preferred term used by police instead of "chase," which is way too sensational).

The silver car sped into the express lanes of the Dan Ryan, trying to escape police, who followed it closely. The silver car, being in the far left lane of the express lane, attempted to cross all four of these lanes to enter get back into the two local lanes. The speeding car didn’t quite make it but instead crashed through four yellow sand barrels near the entrance to the local lanes in order to enter them. The silver car lost control as it entered the local lanes, sideswiping the driver’s side cab of a semi-tractor trailer in those lanes.

The car then sped ahead of the truck and then flipped over onto the on-ramp for 43rd Street. It settled right-side up and the passengers fled, obviously dazed. One sizeable passenger wearing a puffy, yellow coat exited the car and stumbled around.

The "pursuing" police officers did not follow the silver car’s drastic moves but instead pulled over to the shoulder of the express lanes across from where the silver car came to rest. The officer hopped over the cement barrier separating the express from the local lanes and drew his weapon. He saw the large, staggering man get out of the silver car and the others run up the on-ramp (The officer by now had already called for backup, who were on their way to the location of the accident).

The puffy-coated man dropped a small, silver revolver on the ground near the wrecked vehicle, prompting the officer (who was crossing the local lanes to apprehend the man) to put his gun away. The officer, seeing the largess of the man, got out his yellow stun gun and ordered the man put his hands over his head. The massive man instead reached into his coat to pull out a silver-colored, semi-automatic assault rifle (the aforementioned silver pencil box with a clip and a barrel shoved into it) and began firing at the officer.

Seeing that the stun gun may not be as effective against this semi-automatic, the officer threw it down, got out his gun and returned fire. The gun battle moved from the expressway to the grassy embankment of the 43rd Street on-ramp, where (by this time) backup had arrived. These officers joined in the firefight from the top of the ramp and fatally shot the large man.

After receiving the explanation from the director of Police News Affairs (who was the authority whenever police fired their weapons), I was led through the crime scene with the freelance videographers. I saw the shells littering the local lanes, the revolver, the stun gun and the shiny semi-automatic. And then there was the yellow, and now red, puffy coat formerly worn by the man shot by police.

During the gun battle, the puffy-coated man was the only person to be shot. Unlike movies like Face Off of Hard Target, people in the heat of a firefight don’t necessarily take time to aim (least of all an untrained man who may have bough the gun off the street). Officers are trained to do so but (without assuming that the man shot was one) gang members are not.

I took in the entire scene and realized that not too many people would be able to say they surveyed a crime scene in the middle of one of the busiest interstates in the country. This was one memory of my City News Days that I won’t soon forget.


Editor's Note: To find out what would happen if a fire alarm went off while swimming at a gym, check out the latest Sonofa3.

Memories of Clark Pt. 3

Clark Allen Stacy

Clark made me feel like one of the guys. Though we only spoke to each other occasionally, he made me feel like a friend.

My first real interaction with Clark was at one of the aforementioned fight nights. I'd just transferred into Moody in the heart of winter and it was difficult to get to know people in the middle of the school year.

Honestly, though, I found that a bunch of guys going at it with boxing gloves and little else to be a little crazy. But Clark's driving encouragement brought a unique atmosphere that drew me in. He danced around the fighting pair, cheering them on and making sure that the flowing testosterone didn't lead to a real fight. It felt a little safer with him watching over it all.

Soon the guys were looking for another victim amongst the new guys on the floor, and they found me. I assured them that I didn't know how to box, but they didn't think that was an issue. Clark assured me that the other guy who'd volunteered didn't know how to box either (he was wrong). So I removed my glasses, put on the gloves and stood there while the other guy repeatedly hit me full force in the face. I don't think I really even hit the other guy once, and I totally lost count of how many times he nailed me. I was glad Clark had bought training gloves.

I walked away with a bloody nose and chipped tooth, but I didn't regret the event. It was good to just let go, to feel the comradeship of the guys behind me, and to hear the empathetic groans. It was a painful initiation to a great floor and a time of healing for me —-from more than just the nose.

Throughout the rest of that semester, I looked up to Clark as a peer. I admired the way he interacted with everyone. He made you feel like a friend even when you didn't really know him well. In many ways, he had it together.

Looking back, I still admire how much of it Clark had together. He had his inner struggles, but his outward life was one that reached out to others that faced similar struggles. He never disappeared into the background but was always stepping forward to take leadership, or to just help out. That smile and that voice cut deep into the darkness. Talking to and being around Clark pushed the oppression of a dark winter away.

Perhaps that is why it was so hard to loose all of that when Clark didn't return. His life meant so much to the whole atmosphere of Moody that the lack of his face left a huge void in the mosaic of the crowd, but I remain thankful for that face that still crosses my memories. There, in the memory of the past, Clark still pushes the darkness away, and makes me feel at home. I can picture him organizing fight nights right now that will initiate me into his world again--hopefully without the bloody nose.

Daniel Morgan

Memories of Clark Stacy Pt. 2

My memories of Clark are brief. And you may be reading this saying, "Lana - Clark didn't even like Lana." I say that because I really don't know what Clark's perceptions of our brief friendship were. So for what it's worth, these are my memories. I met him in the summer of 2003 and didn't have much contact with him after that to be honest. We met during the Moody summer church history tour through Europe. We both gravitated toward the Quiggle family and ended up sharing many meals with them and walking through museums alongside them. I think we found Mary, Greg and the kids to be a stabilizing presence. It was a nice little nitch of family while rolling through Europe and sleeping in a different bed every three nights.

I have lots of pictures with Clark and the kids. One with all of us climbing on the lions in Trafalgar Square. Clark was trying to convince me that I could just leap up on the big slippery back of one of the lions (in the dark, by the way) like it was so easy, after he had already pushed the kids up onto it. I knew there was no way. So I think I am just standing next to it leaning on its back in the picture.

I have pictures of us in Pizza Hut with the Quiggles, laughing. That was one of my best memories of the trip. The picture is priceless, Clark and I holding out our pizza with looks of excitement and hilarity. It took two takes because I couldn't keep a straight face. Why'd we even take the picture? There was something just so pure and joyful about it.

I also ended up sharing a train car with the Quiggles and Clark. You would think that it would have been awkward. But it wasn't. It just seemed like the way it should have been. Me, Clark and the Quiggles. Looking back on it, I think we both needed that stability, that joy of family life while we were both battling darkness. I definitely can see that now, knowing after the fact that Clark struggled with such deep darkness and knowing what I was going through at the time.

Clark and I spent some time walking around alone together too, in different towns. I remember one walk in London, in particular, which led us to a pub. There was that touch of irony, sharing a beer while on a Moody trip. And I can't honestly remember if it was a big deal to him or not.

What I remember from my conversations with Clark was a certain understanding. Conversation didn't necessarily flow the most easily. It wasn't like we became best friends, obviously, because we never hung out after the trip. We did have a few squabbles. But what I remember was walking around London and feeling like there was no need to conjure up something to say if there wasn't. And there was no need to sugar-coat my comments.

I remember a certain grittiness that results when people are real. I remember being uncomfortable at moments and saying things that pissed Clark off a few times. But I remember that even in those moments, thinking, Clark was someone who wasn't going to judge me for not pulling off the "Moody" look or tone. I didn't feel like I needed to try to be something. There was an understanding that we could enjoy 'being' in the presence of the other and appreciate that person without necessarily having anything in common or planning to become best friends. It was peaceful.

But I do remember that even in the quiet we shared that he was anxious about the future and it seemed like the things he was thinking about - the future, what he was studying, relationships, etc. were all one big question mark for him. I remember thinking that there was a lot going on in his head that needed to be sorted out. I was thinking grad school, an internship or some other broadening experience like that would be formative and help sort things out. That's what I was hoping for both of us. I had just graduated and I was thinking, "he only has a couple years left - he'll make it and find himself on the other side."

But I guess I can take heart that he chose to make me a part of his summer and that at least for those 3 weeks I know we shared moments of real happiness and security with the Quiggles - a foretaste of that for which he could not wait.

Lana Wood

Memories of Clark Stacy Pt. 1

Clark Allen Stacy

The best memories that I have of Clark always involve him doing things, getting people riled up about something and staying physically active. He was always a mobilizing force for anyone around him.

Clark transferred into to Moody and was placed onto Culbertson Five, the floor to which I was a Resident Assistant. He helped to start boxing night on the floor by buying some pairs of gloves and egging people into 1-minute matches against someone else. I couldn’t say no to the cheers of all the guys on the floor, spurred on by Clark, of course. He knew the value of camaraderie, the need for a healthy dose of competition and the value of releasing some pent-up anger. I’m sure some of this idea came from the infamous but genius movie Fight Club, which he always lent out to guys who were uninitiated in the ways of Tyler Durden.

If there was any kind of event that was organized, it was often made or broken depending on whether Clark was behind it. If he was, you could be sure that it would be top-notch and well-organized. Such was a floor open house, where all put their efforts into a sketch show of different musical performances. And what put the icing in the cake of that evening was Clark’s no-holding back act as a lost pig that was lamented in song by its farmer (played by Kansas great Will Regier). To prepare, Clark found some ratty pink clothes, a pink pipe cleaner as a tail, and lots of pink paint to transform himself into the best souuuiiieeee this side of the Mason-Dixie Line. Being bald, Clark found it easy to coat his head, not to mention any skin not covered by his small shirt and skirt, with the pink paint. It was an incredible transformation that turned the event from pretty good to perfect.

After I graduated, Clark and I kept in contact by going out to eat with his half-price restaurant coupons (which he got from the internet) and watching great movies, one of which was One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

As time went by, Clark and I would only run into each other at Moody’s gym. He would work out after chapel and catch me right after I woke up (I was working a second shift as a crime reporter at the time and wouldn’t be able to get up until about 10a.m.). Clark had an idea of maybe enlisting in the Marines after he graduated and wanted to prepare as much as he could for it. And so he, and I as his workout partner, reaped the benefits. There were seemingly endless sit-ups, push-ups and leg lifts he put me through; though I never felt better than when I finished working out with Clark.

During those times in the gym, we talked about all kinds of things, one of which being our spiritual lives. He told me of breaking up with his girlfriend and how hard it was on him. We talked of him struggling with depression and other things. We got onto the topic of knowing what to do with all the theology and information that you learned at a Bible school like Moody. Having been out of school for two years already, I had learned a thing or two about real life and how your spirituality changes for the better or worse.

I told him that nothing I learned while at Moody made any sense until I was out. It wasn’t until after the fact that some aspect of God’s character, say his sovereignty, would seem to play out.

And it now being a year after Clark took his own life, I still haven’t made any sense of anything. I'd like to think that sometime in the future it may make sense. But then it might not, either. And I think I'm okay with that.

Eric Beach
4848 N. Rockwell St. #3
Chicago, IL 60625
312-217-0976


Clark Allen Stacy

This is to the memory of my friend Clark. I thank God for allowing me to have a friend like Clark with whom I was able to grow, share, pray, laugh, and just have fun with. And I miss him so much.

The following took place one fall evening in downtown Chicago. Matt Troyer and I went out on the town with Clark many times and this was a memorable one for me. This gives you a taste of how three guy friends communicate with each other.

Clark: Hey guys look (then pointed to a sign that read "CASS"). I can't believe it, those are my initials.

*Matt and Barry give a confused look to each other*

Matt (sarcastically): Yeah, Clark Allen Stacy Stupid!!!

Clark: Uh........ Shut up Matt.

Barry: Hey look my initials are everywhere. BMW there, BMW there.......

Clark: I hate you guys.

There are so many memories that I have with Clark. He was one of my best friends and one of the most difficult roommates I've ever had. I loved the guy and this is harder than I thought because all of my memories are still very fresh in my mind; as I'm sure yours are as well. I will do my best to share some of them with you.

Clark came to Moody when I was a junior and my roommate Matt was a senior. Right away, Matt and I became great friends with Clark. The three of us seemed to be together whenever we could (that is when Matt wasn't out on a date). We did a lot of fun and crazy stuff, but one serious thing we did was we had cave time together. Cave time was a time when Matt and Clark would jump into my bed while I was sleeping or just about to and we would pray together. This was a great time because we were able share how our lives were going and talk about everything and then pray for each other.

Clark and I went on a lot of road trips together. One Thanksgiving, we went to Minnesota with about 10 other close friends. On this trip, Clark walked on a frozen pond for the first time. We all thought it was pretty weird how he was so amazed about walking on a frozen pond. Another trip we took was to Kentucky for Easter to meet up with some friends of ours. We drove with Suzanne Beyer and I thought she and Clark were going to kill each other by the time the trip was through. Another time, we went to Cleveland and some other places that I can't remember right now.

The summer of 2003, Clark and I thought it would be a good idea for him to live with me at my parents’ house in Spokane. Looking back on it, we had a lot of great times. We were able to work together for a roofing company and went to the lake a lot. We worked at a camp for junior high kids as counselors, we were able to spend a lot of time talking and that was the first time he opened up to me about his depression. I remember one talk we had and he actually told me that he had thought about suicide. That really took me by surprise, but I never thought much about it because he told me he knew that was not an option. My favorite memories of our time in Spokane together were when we drove to Seattle and Grad Coulee. In Seattle, we went to a couple of Seattle Mariner games and stayed with my family. In Grand Coulee, he met the Native American side of my family and we went out boating with our friend Joe Hedrick.

I hope this gives you a picture of things that I remember about Clark. There are many more like boxing nights in our dorm, working at Moody Press together, eating meal after meal in the student dinning hall, running along Lake Michigan together, and on and on. But what I will always remember is how Clark challenged me to live out my faith in God day to day. He had a passion for believers to be real and not mock God by pretending their faith is strong and living a lie. And I'll remember his bald shiny head and his big smile that said "I love you man."

I sure miss him.

Now that I have a child, I wonder what he would have said or if he would have been there when he was born? I don't know, and I think the hard part now is that all of the memories I make in life will be without him.

God bless all of you that have read this. Thank you for putting up with my rambling.

With love,
Barry Warren

Tiffany, Barry, and Silas Warren
1670 N. Davis
Cornelius OR, 97113
(503) 992-0316

In Memory of Clark Stacy

The Picayune will pause its normal service to remember Clark Stacy, a friend who is no longer with us, during the next week. Beginning on Sat. the 18th, The Picayune will feature memories of Clark by those who knew him.

John Woo on the Dan Ryan Pt. 2 will run after the memorial ends.

John Woo on the Dan Ryan (Another in the True Crime Series)

That’s what I first thought when I saw a long stretch of the Dan Ryan Expressway (otherwise known as 90-94) blocked off at around three in the morning last winter. Did they just film some over-the-top action sequence from some overblown project by the high brow director John Woo, famous for such masterpieces as Hard Target and Mission Impossible II? Or was this just another night of crime that will fade with time and only be remembered on some reporter’s notepad?

I was working the night shift again at the New City News Service in Chicago when I heard of the police-involved shooting and car chase on the expressway.

I parked my car on a parallel street and walked down a steep embankment to the northbound local lanes of the expressway. These slower lanes, where semi-tractor trailer trucks were always forced to drive, were closed off beginning around 47th Street and off limits until around 35th Street. Squad cars blocked off the entrances to the local lanes while police tape billowed in the wind across the two lanes at least one hundred feet in front of and behind the crime scene.

I took a moment to take in the scene. There was a semi parked on the shoulder of the local lanes with the driver’s side cab smashed in. Ahead of that on the on-ramp to 43rd Street, a silver Pontiac Sunfire-looking sports car lie upside down, looking like someone had just rolled it like a die. Another squad car was parked on the right shoulder of the express lanes, directly across from the crumpled car on the on ramp.

Bunches of numbered cards were being placed all over the expressway, near the car and in the grass between the on ramp and the expressway. Cards were placed near spent ammunition casings, near a revolver that lie next to the silver car, near a semi-automatic Mac10 assault rifle (those guns that look like a pencil box with a barrel sticking out of one end and an ammunition clip shoved into the bottom), next to a puffy, yellow coat that had blood on it and near other bits of stuff that I couldn’t make out.

It happened to be about ten degrees out that crisp morning. I had on some bulky gloves that made it impossible to write with and was also completely bundled up. Past experiences in the bitter cold and piercing wind of Chicago taught me to have a pencil handy during such times. During such extreme cold, the ink in ball point pens freezes up, making it useless. And the only thing that can you can speedily scribble illegible notes with is a good, old fashioned pencil.

I learned this from one of the freelance videographers, who ruled the night shift in capturing the news. Well, that is if us City Newsers didn’t get there first. But more often than not, they would beat us to it. These videographers would call us up and give us tips from the scene and we would even exchange info at the scene (They helped out in the Sheridan Road Serial Killer).

These guys would film the police spokesman as he told us a version of the events while standing on the piercing wind on the Dan Ryan Expressway. They would catch on tape the man explaining the chase, the shootout between a man with the Mac10 from the silver car and other police and how no cops were shot in the gun battle.

And the explanation is just as thrilling as a John Woo movie. Which, since this blog is already too long, will be concluded in our next issue.


Editor’s note: The editorial staff at the Picayune apologizes for the delay between issues. Due to recent events, the home office of the Picayune will be moving to Dallas, TX in June. Much reorganization for the moves has tied up our editorial staff. We regret the lapse in service.