This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2015, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

Thursday evening rush hour was a two-way event in Salt Lake City. While tired workers abandoned the place, thousands of giddy curb dwellers descended on it. Both groups wanted the same thing — a place called home.

For some, home that evening was measured in linear inches of curb. I went downtown to witness the claim-staking of temporary abodes from which to see the following Days of '47 Parade. Not everyone played well together.

Tribune photographer Francisco Kjolseth and I hitched rides with Detective Mason Givens and Sgt. Lisa Pascadlo of the Salt Lake City Police Department. They were two of dozens of officers who cruised the parade route looking for potential safety problems.

By 8 p.m., 200 East and 900 South looked like a refugee camp as thousands of people had set up tents and awnings, tossed down blankets and sleeping bags, and tied dogs and small children to nearby fences and trees. Everyone was looking to have a good time.

A good time is relative to the person having it. For reasons apparent only to drunks and idiots, having a good time to some people requires making sure that other people don't.

Public safety that night consisted largely of politely reminding people to not let their pajama-clad offspring run around in the middle of the street, to move their chairs and blankets back onto the grass, and to not pee in the yards of those who live along the route.

Speaking of which, the city set up dozens of portable toilets and hand-cleaning stations along the route. In the spirit of the evening, they became part of the entertainment.

When I went inside one for the purpose of sending a message to Atlantis, someone convinced a mob of children to beat on the outside and rock it back and forth.

I was never able to determine who put the kids up to it, but Givens and Pascadlo remain persons of interest.

As night fell and the crowds deepened, calls began coming in. Someone's blanket was touching someone else's. Somebody was driving a motorcycle on the sidewalk. Some guy might have a gun. A woman was unconscious.

The biggest concern for officers was keeping the parade route clear. Everyone was warned that vehicles parked on the street after 2 a.m. would be "relocated."

Relocated sounds nicer but it's really just a friendlier public relations term for "towed" and "impounded."

After 2 a.m., tow trucks hauled vehicles to a nearby "my car got stolen" lot, so frantic owners could call the police to make a report and discover that their rides had in fact only been borrowed. Upon paying a parking ticket fee, they could have them back.

At first, I was surprised how smoothly things ran. A couple of people got tickets, a motorcycle was impounded, and Givens and Pascadlo said "please" 5,000 times. Nobody I saw got arrested or punched in the face.

In short, there was really no news. Until I said the magic words "It's time for me to go home."

Sgt. Pascadlo was driving me back to the station when we got a report of a man on the roof of an apartment building throwing bricks at passing cars and pedestrians. We drove by, and sure enough, there was.

The man — visibly drunk and/or crazy — was perched atop a four-story apartment for reasons that never really became apparent. He refused to come down no matter how many times the police said "Please."

Eventually, more police arrived, along with an ambulance, firetrucks and the news media. As the standoff dragged on and the crowd of spectators grew, the walls of various parallel dimensions grew thin.

A young woman with tattoos and rings in every feature of her face approached the press area and asked me, "Why are the cops making him stay up there?"

Another demanded, "Why don't they leave him alone? He's not hurting anyone." When I pointed to the chunks of bricks in the street, she said, "The cops probably planted those there."

When I explained that I used to be a cop and carried bricks for just that reason, she called me a name and left.

Knowing that the story might be in the news later, I tried to come up with a headline sure to grab the public's attention.

"Police Force Man to Stay on Roof for Three Hours."

"Man Offered Pizza to Hang Ass and Legs Off Four Story Building."

"Roof Bystander Arrested Without Warrant."

After three hours of negotiation — most of which consisted of the guy demanding more illegal drugs, and yelling "%#@& you!" at the police when they wouldn't give them to him — he came down on his own and was patiently led away to a place with less access to high places.

I went home and slept in, completely missing the parade on television the following morning. If you had a good time, you can thank the people who helped make it that way: Givens, Pascadlo and friends.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.