car.
Everybody is packing heat in this part of town, apparently.
A twenty-two-year-old ’banger stumbled out of the car and returned fire with an AK-47. He killed two before getting back in
the car and taking off.
The cops arrived about three minutes later. One black-and-white after another. SWAT arrived, and ten blocks of city was cordoned
off.
They found the car, a white Nissan sedan, near Washington Irving Middle School. The driver again got out, this time with two
others who were also armed, and the gun battle started.
When it was all over, ten minutes later, three Assassins and one cop were dead.
This sort of thing happens here and puts death in the air. It hangs there, like a mushroom cloud, and you think about diving
for cover.
It seemed to put Pick McNitt in one of his moods. Father Bob and I were at the Sip when Pick said, “You know what I hate more
than anything in the world? People who use
begs the question
when they mean
asks the question.
That’s not what it means! It’s a logical fallacy. To
beg the question
means you have
avoided
the question. I hate that!”
“You hate that more than anything in the world?” Father Bob said.
“At this moment in time, yes. You can only hate in the present moment. And I’ll tell you something else I hate. When the morning
shows say ‘Good morning.’ ”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes! Stupid! Three thousand people die in a tsunami in the Philippines, and Meredith Vieira goes to the reporter on the scene
and says, ‘She’s covering the terrible tragedy there. Good morning, Ann.’ And the reporter goes, ‘Good morning, Meredith.
Yes, bodies littered everywhere in the aftermath…’ Just get to the story! It’s not a
good morning!
I hate that.”
“You are on a hate binge today,” Father Bob said.
“If you don’t hate something you’re not alive.”
“God hates, too.”
Pick looked stunned.
“ ‘Do not swear falsely, the Lord says. This I hate.’ Book of Zechariah.”
I said, “That means he hates half the witnesses who testify in court.”
“And all congressmen,” Pick said.
“Not so fast,” Father Bob said. “He loves the sinner. It’s the sin he hates.”
“Fantasy,” Pick said.
“How do you even know what
hate
is?” Father Bob said. “You must have love to have hate. You must know what love is to know what hate is. You must have good
to know evil.”
“I do know all these things.”
“But how?”
“Because I sense ’em,” Pick said. “The way I can tell yellow from blue. I can’t prove to you yellow exists—we have to see
it together. So love and justice are the same. We see ’em, and distinguish ’em from hate and injustice.”
“What’s there to tell us our senses are correct?”
“Experience,” said Pick. “We’ve all figured out a way to get along with each other.”
“Tell that to the gangs,” I said. “They’re killing cops and each other.”
“It’s the way of all flesh,” Pick said. “There is nothing to save us.”
“Love saves,” Father Bob said.
Pick flicked his hand, as if batting away a fly.
Father Bob said, “ ‘The mind has a thousand eyes, and the heart but one. Yet the light of a whole life dies when love is done.’
”
Pick just looked at Father Bob, who seems to pull these things out of thin air. You can argue with philosophy, but poetry
is another matter.
Then Pick said, “ ‘I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved and, next to nature, art. I warmed both
hands before the fire of life. It sinks, and I am ready to depart.’ ”
I was afraid Pick was dangerously close to one of his episodes. Every now and then he went off like a cherry bomb. It would
take days to put the pieces back together.
So I said, “Let me contribute a thought.”
They both looked at me. Incredulously, I might add.
I said, “ ‘I do not eat green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-am.’ ”
They said nothing.
Then Father Bob
Everybody is packing heat in this part of town, apparently.
A twenty-two-year-old ’banger stumbled out of the car and returned fire with an AK-47. He killed two before getting back in
the car and taking off.
The cops arrived about three minutes later. One black-and-white after another. SWAT arrived, and ten blocks of city was cordoned
off.
They found the car, a white Nissan sedan, near Washington Irving Middle School. The driver again got out, this time with two
others who were also armed, and the gun battle started.
When it was all over, ten minutes later, three Assassins and one cop were dead.
This sort of thing happens here and puts death in the air. It hangs there, like a mushroom cloud, and you think about diving
for cover.
It seemed to put Pick McNitt in one of his moods. Father Bob and I were at the Sip when Pick said, “You know what I hate more
than anything in the world? People who use
begs the question
when they mean
asks the question.
That’s not what it means! It’s a logical fallacy. To
beg the question
means you have
avoided
the question. I hate that!”
“You hate that more than anything in the world?” Father Bob said.
“At this moment in time, yes. You can only hate in the present moment. And I’ll tell you something else I hate. When the morning
shows say ‘Good morning.’ ”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes! Stupid! Three thousand people die in a tsunami in the Philippines, and Meredith Vieira goes to the reporter on the scene
and says, ‘She’s covering the terrible tragedy there. Good morning, Ann.’ And the reporter goes, ‘Good morning, Meredith.
Yes, bodies littered everywhere in the aftermath…’ Just get to the story! It’s not a
good morning!
I hate that.”
“You are on a hate binge today,” Father Bob said.
“If you don’t hate something you’re not alive.”
“God hates, too.”
Pick looked stunned.
“ ‘Do not swear falsely, the Lord says. This I hate.’ Book of Zechariah.”
I said, “That means he hates half the witnesses who testify in court.”
“And all congressmen,” Pick said.
“Not so fast,” Father Bob said. “He loves the sinner. It’s the sin he hates.”
“Fantasy,” Pick said.
“How do you even know what
hate
is?” Father Bob said. “You must have love to have hate. You must know what love is to know what hate is. You must have good
to know evil.”
“I do know all these things.”
“But how?”
“Because I sense ’em,” Pick said. “The way I can tell yellow from blue. I can’t prove to you yellow exists—we have to see
it together. So love and justice are the same. We see ’em, and distinguish ’em from hate and injustice.”
“What’s there to tell us our senses are correct?”
“Experience,” said Pick. “We’ve all figured out a way to get along with each other.”
“Tell that to the gangs,” I said. “They’re killing cops and each other.”
“It’s the way of all flesh,” Pick said. “There is nothing to save us.”
“Love saves,” Father Bob said.
Pick flicked his hand, as if batting away a fly.
Father Bob said, “ ‘The mind has a thousand eyes, and the heart but one. Yet the light of a whole life dies when love is done.’
”
Pick just looked at Father Bob, who seems to pull these things out of thin air. You can argue with philosophy, but poetry
is another matter.
Then Pick said, “ ‘I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved and, next to nature, art. I warmed both
hands before the fire of life. It sinks, and I am ready to depart.’ ”
I was afraid Pick was dangerously close to one of his episodes. Every now and then he went off like a cherry bomb. It would
take days to put the pieces back together.
So I said, “Let me contribute a thought.”
They both looked at me. Incredulously, I might add.
I said, “ ‘I do not eat green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-am.’ ”
They said nothing.
Then Father Bob
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