The bombs bursting in air gave proof
Kids getting killed at school. People getting killed at Fourth of July parades. Has American culture been rotten all along, and I've just been out of touch? Or has something fundamental shifted?
Weekly Three
HEAR: An oldie but goodie. “Walking On A Dream” by Empire Of The Sun
READ: The poem Collective Nouns for Humans in the Wild by Kathy Fish. “Humans in the wild, gathered and feeling good, previously an exhilaration, now: a target.”
VIEW: Music and culture critic Ted Gioia answers the question, “Are Three-Minute Songs Bad For Music?”
No. 81: The bombs bursting in air gave proof
Note: I didn’t really feel like doing my usual write-up this morning, so I quickly sketched a short story I thought about while hiking on the Fourth of July, the day when a shooter fired on a peaceful holiday parade in my (new) home state of Illinois, in a town about an hour away from me.
Thurman and Zady Wenzl were sitting on the patio in the backyard, sipping Long Island iced teas. It was the Fourth of July. They were mostly sipping, not really talking, while scrolling through their phones for the latest updates on the mass shooting they had narrowly escaped that morning.
Part of Thurman knew it was only a matter of time until he himself was caught in a mass shooting. He did after all live in the United States where mass shootings happened all across the country and apparently on a weekly basis. But a bigger part of him thought it wouldn’t happen, not to him, not to his family, not in his town, which was suburban and tiny and safe and, based on the people he knew, heavily armed.
Despite what he would have like to believe, he and his wife had finally experienced firsthand one of those mythical American events that so many had experienced before — and on Fourth of July of all days. Perched on a rooftop, an active shooter had unloaded an assault rifle on Hoffman Estates’ annual Fourth of July parade. Six had died (so far) and twenty-something were wounded. They were shaken up, but they had made it out in one piece. Now the outdoors, the comfort of home, and the steady flow of alcohol was helping them decompress.
“Thank God the kids weren’t with us,” Zady said.
“Thank God,” Thurman said. “Craziness. Pure Craziness.”
“It’s hard to feel safe going anywhere anymore,” Zady said.
“And on the Fourth. Just crazy.”
“It makes me want to cry,” Zady said. Then she started to cry.
The shooter was still at large. Authorities advised everyone in the area to shelter in place. The Wenzls were supposed to have a group of friends and family over for a party after the parade, but that was one-hundred percent canceled now. Still, the lawn was freshly cut. Around the edges of the yard, Thurman had stuck miniature American flags into the grass. The grill was ready with a new tank of propane. There was pasta, potato salad, and dip in decorative bowls stored in the refrigerator. The Long Island iced tea was ready in a glass jug. Now the jug was out on the patio with them.
Zady wiped her eyes and recovered. She continued sipping her drink and scrolling through her phone, searching for some comforting update. There was a flood of “Are you OK?” texts from friends who were there and others who had heard about the shooting on the news. She was still trying to get the names of those that were killed or injured.
“Text the Roys,” Thurman said. “If we’re all sheltering in place, we might as well do it together and get some enjoyment out of this Fourth of July.”
“Are you sure?” Zady said. “People died.”
“It’s the Fourth of July for chrissake. Are we going to let this fuckhead shooter screw it up? Send them a text and see what they say.”
John and Linda Roy arrived. They were longtime friends of the Wenzls. Their kids had grown up together, played on the same sports teams. In years past, they had attended the Fourth of July parade together, and they were the most reliable attendees of their yearly post-parade party. They joined Thurman and Zady on the patio. Thurman poured them a drink and turned on the grill.
“Well this is weird,” Linda said. “It’s so quiet.”
Their neighborhood would normally be alive with the sounds of popping fireworks, crowded block parties, and bluetooth stereos blasting rock music. But now the only sound was the hiss of the propane tank sending gas to the grill.
“It really makes you wonder where this country is headed,” John said.
“It does,” Thurman said. “But also, don’t get me wrong, it’s really unfortunate to say, but these things have probably been happening since the beginning of time. I mean, think of the wild west, guys riding into town and shooting everyone just because.”
“That’s true,” John said. “Death, it’s part of life. You never know when, or how, it’s going to get you.”
“That’s it,” Thurman said. “The world is a crazy and unpredictable place.”
The hamburgers and hot dogs were put on the grill, and Thurman went around with the juice jug and topped off everyone’s drinks.
“I wish I would have brought my handgun,” John said. “I’m not sure it would have helped, but maybe.”
“Me too,” Thurman said. “I would have capped that motherfucker if I had the chance.”
“Surprised no one did.”
“You’d think, right?” Thurman said.
With everyone’s drinks filled, John raised his class for cheers. These drinks, he said, were for the people that died that morning, for the ones that were wounded, and for all the men and women who sacrificed their lives for American independence. Everyone took a big swig from their cups.
“So how close were you?” John said.
“Didn’t see the shooter,” Thurman said. “But I saw an older lady get hit. She was sitting there, clapping for the parade, waving a little flag around, just having a good time. Like the rest of us, she didn’t realize yet that the popping sounds weren’t fireworks, but gunshots. I saw her get hit in the chest. She went over the back of her chair. That’s when I grabbed Zady and started running the other way.”
“Craziness,” John said.
“My handgun goes with me everywhere from now on,” Thurman said. “And that’s that.”
“Got to,” John said.
“People want to act like it’s the wild west, then it’s the wild west,” Thurman said.
“It’s all you can do,” John said. “But now they’re going to try to tighten up the gun laws, watch.”
“They probably will,” Thurman said. “But it won’t help anything, and over my dead body will they take my guns. You want me to be empty handed when some psychopath Joe Blow decides it’s time to do some target practice? No thank you.”
“Stay strapped or get zapped,” John said.
John and Thurman laughed. The women had gone inside to get things ready for the hot dogs and burgers. Thurman turned on the stereo. He was feeling good now. Everyone was feeling good. The Long Island iced teas were doing a proper job.
“Want to see my piece?” Thurman said.
“Love to,” John said.
They went in the house and down to the basement, bringing their drinks with them. Thurman opened his gun safe. There was a shotgun, a hunting rifle, ammunition, and other odds and ends. He reached for a pistol-shaped case at the bottom, then put it on his work bench. Both men stood looking down at the case as Thurman slowly unzipped it, revealing a shining nickel-plated handgun.
“Now that’s a beaut,” John said.
“Isn’t it?” Thurman said. “I’ll bring it up. Just in case.”
Thurman tucked the gun into the back of his pants — mostly to hide it from the wives — and the men went upstairs and back to the patio. They were eating now, and they were drunk, and the music was loud.
“This is going to sound terrible,” Linda said. “But at least it was adults and not kids that got hurt today. That Uvalde shooting? Horrible. Horrible. Horrible.”
“I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, the world kids are growing up in today,” John said. “On the one hand, they could turn out tough as hell for basically growing up in a warzone. On the other, they might be all mentally screwy from the fear and being cooped up inside all the time.”
“They’ll be fine,” Thurman said. “So long as we raise them right, you know? We can’t be afraid and they can’t be afraid. We just have to press on. Be strong. The kids are getting to know early on that there are bad people out there. I’m sure it’ll benefit them later on.”
They all hoped Thurman was right.
Then a loud popping sound rang out through the neighborhood. All of them heard it over the music. It was ear-piercing and constant, POP POP POP POP POP POP, exactly like the gunshots at the parade, and it seemed to be coming from the street outside the house.
Thurman grabbed the gun tucked into his pants, ran to the front door of the house, and burst outside onto the front lawn. He saw that the popping came from a young boy setting off a chain of firecrackers. The boy, seeing the big, red-faced, disheveled, pistol-carrying Thurman looking right at him with a drunken stare, ran back inside.
Then Thurman noticed the squad car across the street. Two police officers, in their dress blues, were walking away from Lottie Hernendez’s house. Thurman saw Lottie sobbing as she shut the door. The officers drew their pistols when they saw Thurman carrying a gun and demanded that he drop it. When he did, they tackled him. He quickly explained the situation. They released him and let him go inside. He even got to keep the gun.
Inside now, with the front door closed, he paused in the dim entryway.
What was he doing? Why the fuck did he have his gun out, today of all days? Why did people die in front of him this morning? Why didn’t the Fourth of July feel like the Fourth of July anymore?
There was something awful happening to the world, to his country, and to him — something that was far from what he had known as a boy, as a young man, even as a young adult.
And suddenly he was terribly sad. All that had happened that day, all that he had seen, all the death that seemed to be around him all the time over the last couple of years, all of the horror that he had tried to deflect, to ignore, to make light of, to decode, all of his loneliness — all of it hit him in a savage surge of emotion as he realized that, as hard as he might try to simplify all that was happening outside the walls of his house, nothing about this life was simple.
Not even this episode of dread and sadness he was having contained any helpful insight, any constructive epiphany, any useful conclusions to draw from later on. He didn’t decide that he had been wrong, or that he had been right, or that something needed to change. He knew only that he was confused, and that he didn’t know what to do. The world no longer made any sense, and he didn’t know why.
The rest of the party was stumbling into the house to see where he had gone. He composed himself and put the gun back into his pants.
“False alarm!” Thurman said. “Nothing to worry about. Just a kid with some firecrackers. Now, who’s ready for another drink?” ♦
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I loved your last newsletter, Smoking weed in weird places. A truly enjoyable and thought-provoking read. I think whenever we experience deep suffering or extreme love there is wisdom just beneath the surface, settling in the stillness, waiting to be discovered. And it seems you were able to find that wisdom in the Buddhist texts. Cool stuff, man.
- Caspian
Powerful memoir material there, Matt. I was engrossed, caught up in it, feeling the emotion of it. This is good memoir. It is engaging, reads like a novel, has lessons learned and reflections of how those lessons have shaped one's life. And most importantly it is written in such a way that we want to keep reading. Very nice, very nice indeed!
- Fred
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