It Wasn’t a Safe Way

It Wasn’t a Safe Way

The parking lot at Safeway wasn’t a safe way for an outdoor, town hall meeting featuring the enthusiastic, outgoing cowgirl who loves to ride her bicycle sans cowboy boots all around town to stay in shape and get out and about. The Saturday morning

crowd walking their dogs and drinking their coffees and lattés to go gathered to greet the semi-blue dog democrat and hear what she had to say about such things as the economy, when the semi-shaved headed, schizophrenic kid

Glocked her right in the skull and turned the rest of the automatic, 30 bullet magazine on a little girl, judge, assistants, oh, hell, just about anyone and everyone who now was out of safe’s way at the Safeway. About fifteen seconds in all before the instinctually

(Yes, there is something in us that just does this kind of instinctive thing.)  brave souls jumped his bones and thrust him to the ground.  It was a blood bath, a massacre, it was the modern day mostly white version of Wounded Knee

where my wife and I took communion of orange juice and crackers out of the back of a pickup truck many moons ago and walked through the run down cemetery with the broken arch entrance and no exit except the backside of the arch.

I walked to the edge of the valley where the Lakotas had gathered and I heard the screams and saw the dead bodies covered with frozen blood and blowing snow and the carbine, which had been conveniently placed in the hands

of the chief. The bodies were covered with blood on that relatively warm January day in the still Wild West in the parking lot of the Safeway Grocery with a miracle story to be told about the survival of the blue dog

democrat who now is not thought of as partisan but just a very brave survivor of a bullet that ripped through her brain who probably yearns for the day she can climb back on her bike for a ride around town. A few months later an Arizona state legislator

suggested that for a party money raiser they offer a drawing for a nine millimeter automatic Glock 19. When told that was one of the most insensitive (Did someone mutter dumb ass?) things anyone could possible think of in light of the massacre,

for about the same fifteen seconds for the Glock to go off, I’m told, he just stared them in the eye looking tilt headed and less than the sharpest tool in the shed, kind of like the one and only photo of Billy the Kid. Billy’s girl friend said it didn’t do him justice.

It just sort of made him look a little crazed.