9:07 p.m. - November 29, 2001
investigation
We sent Lucy to actually buy the gun, because she was twenty three and we were only nineteen. It wasn�t age discrimination we were after, although that had been a hot issue with me in the past. It was the gun control laws. None of us had ever been particularly active politically, but too many beers one night and we were transformed into angry rioters, stomping around Mike�s backyard, cursing the idiocy of the government, and the president, and life in general; and way after Lucy and I had collapsed on the ground, laughing and hiccupping, there Mike still remained, standing, silhouetted against the moon. �I�m gonna do something,� he announced, drunkenly, staggering in circles around our bodies lying prone beneath an oak tree. �I�m gonna show them how fucking stupid they are.� We laughed at him, pulled him down with us, covered him with a blanket, and, finally, slept.
A week later, we got drunk again. And here we were, showing them how fucking stupid they were. Or something.
*************
Saturday night. Lucy, standing next to me in the shadow of some towering tree, was speaking louder than necessary for the mission at hand, although I suppose with our strategy it didn�t matter. The problem was, we didn�t have a strategy, nor did we have Mike, yet, who was our �idea person�. Mike was a must if we were going to carry this out. This was our rough plan: prove gun-control laws were lax, by buying a gun, waiting out the background check, and then going out and shooting things up. Proving that, if he wanted, a criminal could easily, so easily, get a gun and commit his crime with it. Our one stroke of �luck� (if luck is the right word for it) was that Lucy went to a completely slummy place to buy the gun, and they didn�t even do a background check. (�Perfect!!�, said Mike, when he heard. �Fucking perfect. They can�t even keep control of their own fucking killing machines. Perfect. What is the NRA gonna say now, huh? huh? Ha HA!�)
Admittedly, to a sober mind, it sounded completely silly. So instead of realizing the error of our ways with a clear head, we decided that, if we wanted to really believe in what we were doing, we�d have to go get some more beer.
Mike banged through his back door with a full case of it, thumping it down on the ground and letting out a low whistle at the sight of the revolver in its black case. �Guys, what the hell are we doing?� he said, but he said it offhandedly, like it didn�t matter what we were doing, just so long as we did something.
Lucy looked at him, her characteristic sulk pouting her lips and slackening her face. �Something stupid,� she snarled, nearly gritting her teeth all the way up through her skull, �and I think we�re missing the point.�
�Of course we�re not,� stated Mike matter-of-factly, popping a beer, �and you know it, sweetheart. The point is, to scare the shit out of these stupid self-righteous bastards with the very issue it is that they�re supporting, which is to say, firearms.�
�Don�t patronize me,� she scowled, and then laughed. �Okay,� she muttered resignedly, and hugged him. �But you�re going to have to do it.�
�I was planning on it,� he said, easily, sipping. �They didn�t even do a background check? This is going to be fucking awesome. The police aren�t going to be able to say anything when we confront them with their own stupid laws.�
�It�s not really their laws, sweetheart,� Lucy countered, putting a hand on his arm. �They enforce them. They don�t make them. What are they supposed to do when they find you with the gun, shooting things? Release you because you say the law is stupid and didn�t give you a background check? That�s fucked logic. They�re going to throw your ass in jail. And laugh while they�re doing it.�
This did not put Mike off. He took the hand that was resting on his arm and shook it, excitedly. �Hell yeah! Political prisoner. Picture in the paper, the works. Fuck, yeah.� He popped two more beers and gave one to me and one to Lucy. �You�re going to need it, guys, when the police come with their billy clubs. Oh yeah! Police brutality! This could get nasty.�
�Shut up, Mike, geez,� said Lucy, laughing, but laughing incredulously. �You fucking don�t want to go to jail. Trust me.�
�Have some more beer,� he said, in response.
*****
When we got to the church parking lot, we were all drunk yet again, as was intended, and the plan sounded genius again, even to Lucy, who was swinging the case and singing gaily.
�If you�re gonna sing, sing opera,� I slurred, putting a hand near her shoulder, but missing. �Chamber music, religious, huh? This is a church. They�re expecting that. They�re not expecting fucking David Bowie.�
�And we�re really worried about the police catching us for singing once we start shooting that gun,� she retorted.
Mike took the case from her easily. �She�s right,� he said. His eyes were bright. �She�s fucking right. They�re gonna get over here and boom BOOM they�re just gonna be all ashamed of themselves for letting us have a gun. Disturbing the peace, we could have done something way worse. And they call themselves law enforcement. Hell of a good job they�re doing, right?�
Lucy sat down on the hood. �Why don�t you do it, then?�
Mike examined the thing. He�d already loaded it, or his brother had, since Mike had never touched a gun before. He was a raging psychotic drunk, but he was seldom violent. Now he pulled out the safety latch, turned it over in his hands. �Fuck yeah,� he whispered. He pointed it at the sky, braced it with both hands. �Fuck, yeah.�
His first shot was a terrible shock. His finger moved back a fraction of an inch and suddenly my ears were full of the crack and the smoke. The bullet, presumably, went up. I never saw it. It was just the sound, nothing but the sound.
Mike looked at his hands. They were shaking. He was shaking. His gray eyes got bluer in the light. A slow smile played about his lips. �Yeah,� he whispered, �yeah.�
Lucy�s voice trembled when she spoke. �Now we wait,� she said.
�Wait?� he asked. �Do they ever shoot just once? No, no..� and without any warning he pulled the trigger again. I screamed. The crack was deafening, and suddenly I wished I were in bed, asleep. He got up off the roof of the car, began yelling. �WHERE ARE YOU? (CRACK!) AREN�T YOU GOING TO COME ARREST ME, PIGS? I�VE GOT IT! I�M SHOOTING! I�M KILLING PEOPLE RIGHT (CRACK!) NOW! HA HA HAAH!!!�
�He�s fucking lost it,� I whispered to Lucy. �He�s out of his mind. Maybe we should just leave.�
�Maybe he�s lost it,� she whispered back, �but it doesn�t mean we can leave him to lose it in front of the cops all by himself. At least if he goes off and starts trying to get all up on the cops we can stop him.�
Lucy�s devotion to Mike is almost frightening sometimes.
�HA HAAAH!� he yelled, dancing now, in circles around the car, shooting. �IF I WERE KILLING PEOPLE THEY�D ALL BE DEAD BY NOW, AND (CRACK )IT WOULD BE BECAUSE OF YOUR FUCKING (CRACK!) NEGLIGENCE! WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO NOW?� (CRACK!)
The police came silently. No sirens. That part surprised me; I thought they�d come screaming around the corner, screech to a stop beside us, maybe make some announcement about keeping our hands where they could see them, but the squad cars were behind Mike before I saw them, and even before he ran out of ammunition. His last shot went off right as an officer appeared, from nowhere, behind him, slipped his arms through Mike�s arms, and had him in handcuffs and up against his car before Lucy started screaming.
�What are you doing?� the officer said to Mike, incredulously, before composing himself, rolling his eyes and saying disgustedly, �get in the car.�
�It�s the laws, it�s the laws!� Mike cackled, totally buzzed by now. �She bought it and they didn�t check her or do anything to know if she was safe or not and��
�Don�t tell me,� he said. �Geez, how drunk are you?�
�Oh no no no, wait wait,� Mike giggled. �Okay, so they didn�t even know! I could have been going on a killing spree! I could have twenty people dead by now! And all because they didn�t check!! Hahahahaha! Isn�t that fucking stupid? It�s fucking STUPID!�
The officer gave him a little push, and Mike fell into the backseat. The other officer, the driver, motioned to us. �You too,� he said.
We slid in beside Mike, still cackling madly. The driver started the engine. Mike whispered to us, �Political prisoners! Ha! Ha! Perfect! They�ve got us! Publicity! Television! Road to change! Hahahaha!�
The officer on the passenger side shot him a disbelieving look. �I�d ask you what he�s talking about,� he whispered to me, �but I�m supposed to let the guys at the station do that, or else their lawyers pull out some obstruction of some amendment.�
******
Suffice it to say, Mike never got his picture in the paper, and he was never a political prisoner. They simply took away his gun and gave him a $2,500 fine. One officer was amused by his explanation; the rest were not, and they refused to let him tell his story on Oprah, which he was seriously lobbying for. They did not change the laws. They did not even consider changing the laws, and when Mike began jumping up and down excitably, yammering about how he could have killed someone, and the gun shop wouldn�t have even cared, they simply restrained him. And then they called the psychiatric hospital.
Sometimes we visit him there, trying to show the staff that he�s normal, that he has normal friends, that he could be leading a normal life. They monitor our visits closely, and although Mike continues to be his boisterous self, laughing and yelling and coming up with crazy ideas, Lucy spends the visits silent, tears leaking from her eyes, her head on his lap. �You�re so stupid, Mike,� she�ll whisper into his jeans, �so stupid.�
And he�ll laugh, his fingers clenching involuntarily, the only sign that anything anybody says has any effect on him. �I know,� he�ll laugh, but quietly, because this is a hospital. �I�ve always known that.�

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