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Don't confuse me with facts; my mind is already made up. [Unknown]
It seems impossible to post a blog entry these days without something happening that plays directly into the dialog. In the first of this series I included a reference to NRA celebrity spokesperson, Charlton Heston. A day later we were all saddened by Mr. Heston's passing. I mentioned the collapse of Lincoln Savings after Charles Keating took deregulation to mean investing in junk bonds, and then heard only a week ago that the investment junkies at Bear-Stearns found themselves strung out on derivatives. And then just yesterday a Democratic presidential candidate of the masculine persuasion appeared to be disparaging guns, of all things. According to Senator Obama, gun violence in America is actually a symptom of broader, more deep seated problems within our society. Imagine that.
Well I've been on something of a tear lately. Actually, it involves a tidbit I picked up from a talking head and I've since become a true believer. The human brain is somehow wired for the narrative--stories, if you will. And to such a degree that given the choice between narrative and fact, we humans will tend to choose narratives over facts almost any day of the week. And so what I say is this: It's time to stop listening to the narratives and start paying attention to the facts.
No one can deny the power of a perfectly timed rumor, for example. And although they're sometimes called cliches, there is a difference between a cliche and what we euphemistically label as "the conventional wisdom". A cliche like, "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen," is a basic truism, whereas the old saw, "A ban on handguns means that only criminals will have them," is one of the many "narratives" out there. But is it true? Of course it's true. . .on the day the law is passed and might even remain so under a system of anarchy, but we don't have a system of anarchy in this country. In America we subscribe to something called law enforcement. This is the "fact" that handgun proponents always conveniently overlook. Because if possession of narcotics can be (and is) a felony, handgun possession can be made a felony also. And I might just add while I'm at it that *felony handgun possession* would make an attention-getting "strike three" in the system of 3 strikes and you're out.
What it all boils down to is this--the only way to change someones mind is *not* by arguing the facts until you're blue in the face, but to make your opponent start believing in a new narrative. This also explains why I love stories so much, and probably why you do also.
Okay. So with seventy million handguns in circulation, Mister would-be-President, I'm scared. Really scared. They can fly airplanes into buildings all day long and never approach the devastation that loose handguns in this country have wreaked upon a society that has quite simply gone mad.
And the segue is. . .ta--ta-ta--tah. . .'My true story' [so help me God]. It might be a bit strange to see on a blog, but let's call this a diary entry. I will say that as a storyteller I have added embellishments and I've had to deal with POV issues. I might not change the minds of hardened gun enthusiasts, but that's not what this is about. It's about adding my voice to the ongoing "narrative," and hopefully, maybe farther down the road, the human animal can begin to come to grips with the subjects of random violence and mass murder.
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"The Last Day of My Life"
January 8, 1999.
Final moments can be a bitch. Most often they're like long goodbyes, two-minute warnings and eating your way through a plate of escargot. Unless, of course, you happen to be your mother-in-law, a rabid football fan or a duck. But for the rest of us, moments like these seem to have a way of going on forever.
Breathe.
Might he have been thinking, "if you only knew?" as he backed the dilapidated old pickup into his former boss' parking space, not wanting to arouse suspicions, really, but also hoping that his opening act wouldn't go totally unnoticed by his former colleagues? Could he have thought he would be leaving the old junker behind as a ceremonial headstone, so to speak, and a monument to his own courage in the fulfillment of his destiny? Maybe. But then again it's just as likely he was almost oblivious to his surroundings and simply listening to the pounding of his heart, while pondering what it will be like to descend into hell and meet his mentor face to face.
After all, what else could realistically describe the mind of a person who
could sit for nearly half an hour in a closed vehicle, apparently just biding his time behind foggy, rain-streaked windows, knowing that shortly there would be a bunch of fresh corpses - including his own - just beyond the stucco walls and darkened windows he was so fixed upon?
The question, posed after the fact, is, of course, purely academic. The moment of truth came eventually, as it always does.
Burn.
After talking his way past the receptionist, he confronted the #2 man in the company there in his own office, and, while standing directly across the desk from him, produced a small caliber semi-automatic and opened fire at just about point blank range. He must've seen a bumper sticker I remember seeing, which read, "When in doubt, EMPTY the magazine", because that's exactly what he did.
The magazine held six rounds. Poor Sheldon probably never even saw it coming.
Returning to the hallway he then reloaded and sprayed bullets in all directions, aiming for computers and office machines, but taking particular interest in anything that moved. After the third clip went in he proceeded down the hallway and began riddling the walls on the first floor, where through locked doors could be heard the terrified screams of six other employees.
The small break room, only large enough for one or two employees, was just ahead on the left. Not a good place to hide, if that was anyone's intent, because there was no rear exit. He pulled the pin back and stepped inside. A female, who's office, he knew, was next to Sheldon's, cowered behind the water cooler. He took aim, squeezed, and let the hammer fall, this time with only a hollow snap. As she began to back away, he rushed forward and pushed. The neck of the almost full 5-gallon container landed almost dead center in the small of her back, pulverizing the last three of her vertebrae.
He had run out of real estate, but he had also not forgotten that there was a second floor. He could call for a drop of the final curtain at that moment or he could go on playing the role of executioner, and for some, the sudden acquisition of power over life and death can be irresistible. But with only one more clip, it was definitely decision time.
So which would it be? The one thing he could know for sure, however, is that he needn't be concerned about the earthly consequences. There would be none. The otherworldly consequences, however, were a different matter. Those, he knew, had kicked in already.
And for a small family of workers which included mothers and dads and sons and brothers, an unimaginable tragedy was just beginning. Still to come would be the ubiquitous unanswerable question of, "How could this have happened here?" Here in this small suburban, even rural, community where people pay their taxes, mind their own business, vote Republican and believe that firearms in the hands of law-abiding citizens is a good thing?
It happened because he got in, and of course he got in because Sandy, the receptionist, let him in. Not that there's any kind of implied fault in saying that. After all, it was something she'd done day in and day out only a short while before, and except for the extremely long time it took him to get out of that wreck of a vehicle, nothing seemed terribly unnatural or out of the ordinary about it. That is, until she started to get an up-close look at him. Something struck her about the way he was dressed this time, starting with his heavy raincoat. True, it served the purpose on a rainy day, but this was a kind of cold weather raincoat, probably made in Europe. Clothing like it is hardly ever seen in southern California.
The Visitation.
1:42 p.m.
"Well, hi Mike! Long time no see! How've you been?" Sandy said, as she tried to cover her true feelings with a note of cheeriness.
"Oh, okay. Not too bad."
"Gee, you're pretty wet. Why don't you hang that coat up in the washroom and let it. . ."
"No, no I'm not staying long. I'm stopping in to see Steve. Is he here?"
Even as he was standing there, Sandy kept going back to the eerie feeling she had while watching him park that junkyard trophy in the reserved section. The wipers weren't on, so all she was getting was this white circle where a face should have been, and the vague sense that a shock of black hair was dipping down onto a forehead. Then the truck just sat there while she kept waiting for someone to get out. Five minutes. Ten minutes. More than twenty minutes and all she could see was a bulky shape that never once moved or shifted position, but just seemed to be staring back at her through the large front office windows.
"Steve's out of town this week, Mike. Did you need to see him especially?"
"I am wanting to ask if I can have back my old job. To be honest, I have not worked since I am let go."
"Gosh, that's a shame, Mike. I'm so sorry to hear that. What about your contract work? Can't the agency find you something?"
"I think they are not trying for me anymore. They think my English not so good yet. So when I can see Steve?"
Anyone could tell you that Sandy wasn't the type who would jump at shadows. More than that, she was the consummate office manager--a 22-year veteran with a steely will that went perfectly with the iron-gray color of her hair, which she wore 'short 'n sassy'. The backbone of the company, one might say. But the chill returned as she continued to replay those unnerving moments leading up to her confrontation with this man. The thought lingered that he, this guy Mike of all people, had been staring past the front of the building and directly into the foyer for so long. She remembered feeling forced into returning that stare as she tried to think of certain individuals or past circumstances that would help to explain what was going on. Why would anyone be doing this?
"Steve's often out for several weeks at a time, as you probably know, Mike," she continued. "Let's see, looking at his calendar he's not due back until a week from this coming Monday. Would you want to come back then? We could arrange an appointment."
"No, no good. I am needing to start to work."
Greater tension was beginning to grow in the conversation, and Sandy was beginning to wish she had followed through on her first instinct, which was to call for help. She was thinking back. . .back to how after nearly half an hour and still no sign of movement inside the strange vehicle, she actually did pick up the phone, but instead of calling the police, she'd called a friend.
Five minutes earlier
1:37 p.m.
"Denise, could you come up here? Thanks."
All the offices on the first floor, the so-called 'mahogany row', were on just one side of the main hallway, the windows side. The controller's office, which was Denise's, was the third one down from the foyer.
"What's happening, kiddo?"
"Look at that truck out there. Have you seen it before?"
"You mean the one alongside the driveway? Looks pretty beat up. What's it doing in Steve's space, anyway? Is someone inside?"
"Yes, and they've just been sitting there for close to half an hour now, and I'm almost certain his whole attention has been on our door--like he's watching for someone. I don't know what to make of it. Should we call the police?"
Taking a step or two closer to the windows, Denise replied, "Oh, I don't know, isn't it pretty hard to tell what he's. . ."
"No, no!" Sandy burst out. "Don't let him see you looking! Come back around behind the desk. Pretend you're just going over some paperwork."
"Honey. . ." Denise said, as she turned her focus back to Sandy. "This isn't you. I can see you're really upset." Then crossing back over toward her friend, she reached out a hand and urged Sandy to hold on. "Look, there are plenty of other tenants in here. How do we know it isn't someone just waiting to take his wife out to lunch or something?"
"I know, I know," Sandy said, as she gratefully accepted the warm gesture. Then she managed a small embarrassed smile and added, "I guess I look pretty silly, don't I? But it's like I tried to tell Steve, how can we work in a building where the landlord kicks out the daytime security personnel? This is exactly the situation the management company says will never come up. Well, see? Less than, what?. . .three months later? I just don't think it's right."
"No disagreements there, kiddo. But look, if it bothers you that much, I'd go ahead, then, and call the police. That's why they're out there, aren't they? To serve and protect'? I will admit it's starting to look pretty creepy. That's the worst looking pickup I've ever seen. Oh! Look, the door's opening. Oh, my God. You know who that is? What's he doing here?"
"That's the agency guy Steve terminated last year. Of course! Mike! Wasn't that his name?" Sandy said through a sigh that was half relief, half additional worry. "Everyone said it took six months to straighten out the messes he made. Oh, damn, wouldn't you know, he's coming in here. I'll handle it. Thanks, sweetie."
The seconds were ticking by, and Sandy was still looking for the formula that would infuse a bit more ease and comfort into the situation.
1:43 p.m.
"I'm quite sure that we're not hiring right now, Mike," Sandy said, "and I'm pretty sure Steve will tell you the same thing. If we set up a time for you to come in, maybe he can. . ."
"No. Too long. Besides, I have ad from newspaper, see you are hiring. I was working also for Mr. Snyder before. He can tell me."
Now the level of determination in Mike's voice was turning Sandy's nagging sense of concern into something more like actual dread. She studied him again for a moment as he stood there in that monsoon rain gear and a growing puddle of water.
Finally she said, "Well, Sheldon's in, but he's preparing for an important meeting right now and can't be interrupted. I'm sorry, Mike, but wouldn't there be a time in the next day or so that would be convenient for you? That way you can have plenty of time to go over everything very carefully and. . ."
"This won't take long. His office is second one, yes?"
As he brushed past Sandy and started down the hallway toward Sheldon's office, which was not very far away, she picked up the phone to buzz, but realized that Mike would already be there when Sheldon picked up. All she could tell him was that she had tried to turn him away and that she was sorry, which was to be followed, of course, by an unimaginably tragic turn of events.
Most of us worked on the second floor. The second floor was just like the first floor except we had the cubicles and they had the offices. We had windows just as large as theirs, but we didn't ALL have windows. There was a single, long flight of stairs at each end of the central hallway which connected the first and second floors. Going down you faced a blind corner as there was a wall stub and a turn to the right at the bottom. Going up, however, there were no turns and no wall stub--you looked directly into the second floor . My cubicle was second from the end on the windowless side, just in front of the rear stairway.
Our little software house in Ventura County was just up the coast from Los Angeles in a little hi-tech industrial park. I remember how sleepy I felt right after lunch that day. It was 1:43 p.m. I knew the time because I was staring at the little digital clock on the Windows desktop. Someone had set it up so that the seconds were displayed also, and I'd finally decided that I'd had enough. I'd find myself being lulled into stupid games with the damn thing like, "I wonder how many seconds I'd be off if I tried to close my eyes for exactly one minute without counting". I even remember thinking just a few minutes earlier, "You are a programmer, you know. Do you think you can figure out how to get rid of the seconds on a stupid digital clock all by yourself, or should you ask for help?".
In fact, most of us on the floor were programmers. There was me--Ray, Rick, Paul, and Tom. Shel used to be there among us, but then got kicked downstairs into mahogany row, and he really deserved it. Shel's skill level exceeded the rest of ours combined. I yawned and thought about getting a cup of fresh coffee before the programmers' meeting in Shel's office at 2:00.
"Ready for our meeting?" I said to Ray over the top of our cubicle wall.
"Sure, why not. We've still got 10 minutes or so, don't we?"
"Yeah, but I want to. . ."
Pop, pop, pop. . .pop. Heads appeared immediately over the tops of cublcles.
"Gunfire?"
"You bet! Small Caliber!" came a reply.
"No way! That would have to be downstairs!"
"So be it then, because that was a thirty-eight!"
"Holy shit! Ray, how many was that?" I said, almost whispering.
"Six, I think." he replied in almost the same hoarse tone.
The tiny aisle was suddenly full of people. We heard screams on the first floor. Some rushed toward the stairs, but then hesitated. The blind corner at the bottom! We're trapped! If you are caught on the stairs when they come up, you're dead.
Pop! Pop! Pop, pop! Now a muffled scream accompanied each round. They were just getting started. Glass shattered. Something heavy fell. Oh, my God, there were moans also. I was hearing life ebbing away from my friends downstairs. It would be us shortly if we didn't do something. That second burst was closer to the center of the hallway, so the massacre on, and they'd soon be on the stairs. But which stairs? Front or back? "Oh, God help us," I thought out loud. "I don't want to die like this."
1:44 p.m.
Pop! Tom and Rick were already very cautiously descending the front stairway. "No no, you guys! No! You can't go down!" Were they crazy? "We've got to find a place to hide!" I mumbled.
I was close to the back stairway and the back door just below. Could I reach the back door? It meant momentarily stepping into the rear of the first floor hallway. Target practice, that's what I'd be. Nothing but target practice. And yet safety might be only forty feet away! Which will it be? I was trying to remember if I had ever gambled with my life--for real. I decided I couldn't do it.
Still in my cubicle, I crouched down as low as I could get to the floor. With all the pandemonium around me, I knew it wasn't what I wanted to do, but I couldn't think! There's got to be a way out! We've got to get out! There are no police! There are no sirens! I kept thinking, "Oh God, bullets could even come through the floor!" I stood up and saw that Ray and I were the only ones left upstairs.
"Ray, I wonder if anyone's called 9-1-1," I said.
"I haven't heard any vehicles. Maybe no one has. I guess one of us should," Ray replied.
"Yeah. Okay, I'll call."
I dialed and dialed, but kept getting that stupid error tone. I felt like I was dialing into the Twilight Zone. Du-du, du-du, du-du. What the. . .? I can't even dial 9-1-1! Oh, Christ! Of course not, you idiot! You're at work! You have to dial 9-9-1-1.
"9-1-1 Emergency."
"They're shooting people in my building."
"Ambulances and police are on the way, sir. Sir, where are you in the building?"
"On the second floor. Have you been called already? There are no emergency vehicles here."
"We've had two calls from the first floor, sir, and help is on the way. What's your name?"
I mumbled it.
"Okay, we're going to help you. Now listen to me. I need you to stay on the line, okay? Just stay on the line. Are you near the windows?"
"No."
"Good, that's good. Stay away from the windows, okay? Be somewhere where you can't be seen from the windows. Also our last report from your location indicated that you have five casualties and three are dead. Can you confirm this?"
"No, no I can't confirm anything. Look, I have to get out of the building! They'll be up here any second now. I. . ."
"Stay where you are and stay on the line. Do not attempt to leave the building. You could be seen running from the scene and be shot by the police. Now listen and don't panic, okay? You're the only one on the line right now and we need your help. We have not heard shots since we've been on the line with you. Have you heard any more shots?"
"Not for a few minutes."
"Not for a few minutes? Has it been more than five minutes?"
"No, not more than 5 minutes."
"How long has it been since you heard shots?"
"Not very long. Actually less than a minute, I'm pretty sure. Look, I have to put the phone down. I feel sick. I'm... I'm... Oh, God."
1:55 p.m.
Time had slowed to a crawl and when I looked up, I was alone on the floor. Facts were not registering properly either, I now realize. The entire event had played out in less than three minutes, yet I remained in a state of abject terror for more than twelve, and in all the chaos and confusion no one on the first floor had yet missed me. "Numbing fear" is how I would characterize what I'd been feeling. To put it another way, I was literally too scared to be scared, and was finally found sitting on the floor in a corner, hugging my knees.
As I was being led outside, I witnessed the perpetrator being lifted onto a stretcher. He was conscious and writhing in pain as the result of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
2:10 p.m.
A crisis intervention team had pulled us all together in a neighboring building. . .the culmination to what I would realistically describe as the worst day of my life.
Epilogue
The early count: one dead, two listed as critical. It was a big story in the county newspapers, but went virtually unnoticed in the big city dailies. In the LA area there are much bigger violent crime stories any day--and every day--of the week.
The perpetrator remained hospitalized in grave condition for several months--touch-and-go the entire time. He eventually stood trial, was sentenced, and is serving 50 years to life in state prison. The victim's family, bitterly disappointed by the sentence as they pleaded for the death penalty, was consoled by the prosecutor with the following pronouncement (para): "He's a Russian. He'll be a marked man in prison. You've got your death penalty. He'll be dead within three years."
Acknowledgment
I began this article by noting that some of the reporting I've done seems to have a way of anticipating further developments in the story itself. Perhaps that's because the story is about violence in America, and having said that, perhaps the piece should be titled, "The Never Ending Story." I can now report that in the past few days, two additional items have appeared in the news that bear directly on the issue at hand. We can now read about college students organizing demonstrations in favor of permitting guns on campus, and also that the state of Florida has passed a law permitting guns to be brought aboard private vehicles and carried along on the nation's highways.
As to the first of these, has it occurred to anyone that if students were to have guns in their possession in the classroom, who would argue against workers wanting to keep a firearm in the top drawer of their desks while at work? I sure could have wished for one, and after my experience--and in the interest of fairness--I might not stand in the way of that argument.
And as for the second item, I'd like to address the Florida legislators responsible for their maniacal decision. And it is simply this: Thank you. Thank you for giving us--we average American citizens--a path of culpability leading to the statehouse steps and a potential avenue of recourse when innocent victims are shot dead while driving. It is an absolute certainty that your actions will be responsible for a monumental surge in the number of childhood deaths as a direct result of gunfire in America.
Yes, it is you--our esteemed legislators and representatives--who are guilty. . .guilty of listening to the narratives being fed to you by lobbyists instead of paying attention to the facts. You see, you're not just part of the problem--you *are* the problem. You need to start getting down to the business you were hired for, which includes seeing to it that public safety is not the joke it is today, but a policy we Americans can actually believe in.
------
Fritzwilliam
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Issue Two--Skidding on Oil
