Still In America

“You won’t see my kids, or my neighbors kids, hanging out in the slums, smoking crack and making mayhem,” Moe wrote. “My boys go straight to the shooting range after school. My two older boys, Moe, Jr., 13, and Larry, 11, both have made the marksman classification; my younger boy, Joe, he’ll make the grade before long. He’s only 8.”

You can imagined what I thought after reading this. I picked up the phone and gave Old Moe a call.

“Moe, are you telling me your younger boy is a straight shooter too?” I expressed my doubt, seriously. I figured a father was boasting too much. I remembered when Moe and I were eight.

“Kids today have us beat.” Moe said, “We couldn’t hit a thing. I tried. Tree limbs. The side of the tool shed. A few stray cats.”

“Moe, your younger boy is kind of small.”

“My little boy is in good shape. He has good eye and hand coordination, and he’s strong. My baby boy can handle a max machine gun by himself, pack, load and shoot it. The gun’s bigger than him, but he can tote it.”

Moe challenged me to hop on a plane and to “come on out and see” the truth of his boast for myself. I did, but not really needing to go. To write a piece on Moe and his boys, I could have gotten all the info I needed on the phone. I missed the small town, the trees, the fresher air –

Moe met me at the airport and suggested that we jog to his place. He lived twenty miles from the airport! I am past the time when I was testosterone driven, I am well in the time when I  prefer driving or being driven around in a comfortable car. I said to my old friend, “I have luggage.”

“What? You have two bags? My two eldest boys will handle your luggage.”

Moe’s sons took my bags and, like the African natives in the old Tarzan movies, carried them on their heads, jogging behind us.

We made a detour at the local shooting range.

The scene of a dad sharing a moment with his boys — Father and sons and their guns, a man and his boys shooting together, was a nice sight. This has to be admitted.

I was invited to join in the shoot. I declined the invitation.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Take Joey’s gun. Joey, hand … your riffle.”

“No! I don’t let nobody handle my gun, daddy, and anyway, I don’t know him that well.”

Old Moe made a big frown, but he wasn’t angry. He was proud of his little boy. The frown was a put on. He winked at me, and he said to his three sons, “Boys don’t let nobody take your guns from you, not even your old dad.”

The boys swore on their young lives that they wouldn’t, and Moe announced, “we’ll shoot another twenty rounds apiece, then we’ll go home and eat.”

That evening after supper, Moe took me to his basement rec. room, where we played pool, and discussed how to solve all of the world’s problems. We talked all night. There was no clock or watch in the basement. We talked until Moe’s cell phone rang. He was in the middle of a long explanation of why the federal liberal establishment is responsible for what’s wrong with today’s youth. The phone rang a half dozen time before he answered, snapping–

“Yeah?”

Only then did I learn that it was about noon.

Moe took a pocket watch from his pants and gasped, “Golly!” he mumbled that he was going to be late for a sales meeting, and he hated being late for anything.

“Dad!” The voice of one of Moe’s sons came yelling from the phone. Which son? I couldn’t tell.
“What!” Moe barked.
“A bank robber broke in the school! Shooting!” the young boy said –hyper. “Shot Mr. Brown! He told the kids to get down under our seats! We’re trapped in the library!”

The boy was going to say more, but Moe cut him off, “In the library?”

I could hear butterflies in the boy’s throat. “Dad, I had to finish my book report.”

“Okay. I’m on my way,” Moe said in dry tone. “You know what to do?”

“I don’t –”

“What?”

The boy puffed air. I guess he was a bit pink face, “Dad, Miss. Jones said –”

Moe folded his arms. He shook his head, as though he couldn’t believe what his son just said. “Said what! What did that liberal goose head say?”

“Dad!” The boy whined like a cute, little puppy dog. He was a little boy.

“Don’t tell me you went to school unprotected, boy? What have I told you a million times?”

“But dad!”

“But nothing, boy. When I get you home, you’re on punishment.”

“Oh, dad!”

“No tv for a week. You can forget about watching the XFiles. And I won’t let you see it on the VCR either.”

“Dad!”

“Don’t dad me. Keep your head down.”

Moe clicked off the phone. “I’ve got to move,” he said to me.

He raced across the rec. room and opened a closet door. Inside were toys which would have won Gordon Liddy’s approval. Max guns and ammo! All sorts of guns and ammo! Moe grabbed one sawed-off shot gun, one semi-automatic carbine, and one pistol. He turned to me, said, “Help yourself, buddy.”

“Pal, I’m here on a story.”

“Take a TEC-9 at least.”

“Moe –”

“Boy, I sure hope that living in Washington hasn’t turned you into one of those wimpy liberals?”

“No!” I growled and gestured at the max gun. “I don’t have the required local permits.”

“Yeah, I see. You should have kept your local residency.” He shut the closet door. He paused before starting upstairs, said, “To think that one of my sons would go out without packing a piece. I feel castrated without my gun.”

On the way to rescue his boy, Moe explained that he was a sworn member of the Sheriff’s Volunteer Citizen Posse. When we arrived at the Ronald Reagan Middle School, where Moe’s middle boy attended, we found hundreds of people. The school campus and the adjoining street were seething with heavily armed people, policemen, posse members, and parents. The area was sealed by the county SWAT team, volunteer SWAT teams and the state police SWAT team. The sheriff stood in the midst of the crowd, of the sworn officers, of armed parents, of the armed curious, and made it clear to all that it was impossible for the bank robber to escape.

Moe jumped out of his truck. He was all sweated up and red-face.

“What are we doing out here?” he demanded. “The bank robbing armed creep is in there threatening our un-armed children!”

The Sheriff replied, “Moe, no need to get in that state, it is not necessary. We are all hyped enough! We’re ready to send in the first SWAT team.”

Moe tried to breathe slower, to calm. This was not easy, under the circumstances. His boy was inside without a gun. Moe pressed the sheriff to be allowed to lead the first team.

The sheriff replied, “The team has already been chosen.”

“I see,” Moe said coldly. There was anger in his voice, more than I’d ever heard before.

“You don’t. You are late.” The sheriff would not yield.

“It’s not my fault.”

“We called you on your job, you weren’t there.”

Moe nodded and stepped back. He thought of the trouble his son was in. He mumbled to me, “First, the boy goes unarmed, and to add insult to injury, he delays calling me. He may never get off of restrictions. It’s not my fault, I’m late. My boy should have called me.” Moe made a real frown, then he asked me, “Why do you think he waited to call?”

I shook my head.

“I think you know. He knew he would have trouble explaining why he went into that school house, where any sicko could enter, without his gun. Going out without one’s gun is like going out butter-ball-butt-naked! I will not have any one of my children going around butt naked!”

I kept silent. I stood back and studied Moe. He was devastated. He told me, he had always been on the first team.

“Well, I hope they can do it without me,” he snapped. “Hell! I wasn’t that late.” He spun on his right heel and walked back to his truck. As he reached for the door handle, the sound of gunfire was like a steel claw. It grabbed him and pulled hard on his head, forced him to turn, and to look, and to see. It was too painful. He was not with the first team charging the school house. He opened the truck, got in, slammed the door shut.

I tapped on the window.

“Moe? Are you all right?”

He gestured to me to get in the passenger’s side.

“You don’t have to sit here with me, you; might want to interview the high sheriff, Wyatt Earp,” said Moe angrily. “His dissing me is absolutely disgraceful, and I’m not going to stand for it. I’m a few minutes late and he treats me like I am a yellow dog liberal.”

Moe said he might run for sheriff; just for spite. Then he said he might run for sheriff to get the county right. He also said, “Why would a bank robber run into a school house full of children? I suppose liberals would say the bank robber does what he does because society is at fault. It is not society. It is the sheriff. The sheriff and the law, the judges, have been far too lenient with criminals, letting criminals get away with murder, because of far too much smart talk from lawyers.”

I replied, “Smart talk! That’s hardly the word I’d use.”

“You agree with me?” he asked, his scowling subsided.

“I– ”

“Hush, –!” suddenly, he yelled, “Listen!”

“Moe?”

“The shooting has stopped!” He opened the door.

Something was wrong. He jumped from of the truck.

Surely not? It was! The first team was in retreat! Moe seemed to be having trouble believing it. He ran to the sheriff, who was cowering behind an armor police wagon. I followed him. The sheriff wasn’t happy. He pointed at me. “Who is he?”
“He’s a friend, born around here,” Moe said.

“We haven’t been introduced,” the sheriff eyed me coldly.

“I’m …” I offered my hand.

The sheriff studied me, said, “You look vaguely like someone I’ve seen.”

Suddenly, Moe looked as though he wanted to hit the sheriff. “Why are you here and not in the school house?”

The sheriff replied, “The SWAT team is ready to make an assault, but we’ve been taking fire from the cafeteria.”

“I thought the bank robber has the kids trapped in the library,” said Moe.

“Somebody’s in the cafeteria.”

“It’s a joke, right?”

“Is this a joke?” the sheriff took off his hat and showed me the hole where a bullet apparently passed cleanly though.

I gasped, “You’re lucky!”

Then I saw the thin line of blood seeping from his scalp.

Moe stepped away,  got on his cell phone, called his kid. “Larry, how many perps are there?”

“One, dad, but he has a big gun.”

“One? Who’s in the cafeteria shooting at the swat team?”

“I don’t know. My friend Billy was in the cafeteria at lunch. He might know. I’ll call him.”

These kids have cell phones like we had beepers. Moe’s kid phoned his friend in the cafeteria. Then he reported back.

“Dad, it’s Billy!”

“Billy? Are you saying –”

“He thinks bad guys are trying to get in to get the kids!”

“That four-eyed freak looking squirt? He has the swat team pinned down.”

“He can’t shoot straight, dad. I don’t think he can see well.”

“Who gave him a gun?”

“His daddy.”

“Tell him– Give me his number!”

“He might not talk to you, dad.”

“What?”

“He’s a fat kid, dad. He’s protecting the cafeteria.”

“Give me his number!”

Moe briefed the sheriff and gave him the cell phone number of the kid in the cafeteria.

Then Moe said to me: “See! See! The kids around here are something special, because we give them a sensible upbringing. We teach them responsibility and self-reliance. Back where you live, with strict gun control laws, a kid like Billy wouldn’t be able to protect the cafeteria, and other kids. Those kids in that cafeteria would be at the mercy of every sicko bank robber who breaks into a school to terrorize kids. Our kids are empowered. They are ready. Well, the
ones who don’t leave their guns at home, are ready to stop any sicko, to blast any nut who invades their school room.”

Moe went on for ten minutes discussing the good character of splendid boys who went to school packing guns.

The sheriff interrupted. “That kid won’t put down his gun.”

“Say what?”

“He doesn’t believe I am the sheriff.”

“You had better get his mama to call him. His daddy’s out of town on business.”

While the sheriff got Billy’s home number from the school administration, Moe said to me. “I hope the press gets here, with cameras.”

“Why?”

“So that they can send pictures of that Billy kid all around the world. He’s a little squirt, but is not afraid to shoot. Can you imagine the fear he will strike in the hearts of foreigners who don’t like us? The little dictator over there will see we aren’t afraid of any ground war. Our kids could stand up to him. Our kids are willing to stand up and defend. This is America. We’re tough.”

Meanwhile, several armed parents had become restless. They decided to try to do what the first SWAT team had failed to do, take the school. These parents did not know about Billy in the cafeteria. All they knew was that a bank robber was holding their kids.

These parents, a baker’s dozen in number, rushed the school before the sheriff could stop them; but they were stopped by –

“Sniper fire from several shooters, sheriff!” a deputy sheriff screamed.

The mayor came screaming up during the parents’ s charge. He’d been out of town.

“Don’t shoot up the school!” the mayor screamed. “It’s a new building. The voters won’t support a bond issue to pay for a replacement. I had a devil of a time getting that one through, so go easy with the shooting!”

“May need a neutron bomb to clean out the snipers,” said one of the parents.

“I’ve been hit, sheriff,” another parents said, crawling from the line-of-fire.

“How bad?”

“One clean round through the right shoulder blade.”

“Want the doc?”

“No, sheriff. I’m no slacker.”

Moe phoned his kid again. “Darn, it, Larry! How many guns does that kid have?”

“He has one.”

“One! Don’t tell me that. I heard more than one gun.”

“Dad –”

“Don’t dad me. Tell me !”

“Dad, Billy told me Jimmy, Shirley and Burl have guns too!”

“You didn’t tell me that!”

“I didn’t want to rat on Shirley! She’s my –”

“Three parents have been shot.”

“Shot? How bad?”

“Flesh wounds.”

“You are okay?”

“Shirley, huh? Once I kill that young lady, I’ll invite her to the range to shoot with us.”

“Neato, dad.”

“Keep you head down, son. We’re going to come in there and get that guy any minute. Your old dad’s going to be at the point.”

“Neato, dad.”