The Choruses I Hear

    I gather my papers, stuffing them under my arms, and hurriedly leaving the room. I must make it to the tavern by eight -- nine at the latest. The QRace will be waiting.
   At the corner, I pause to take a newspaper from the box. I am anxious about the day's news, still not having read the story about the press release from the 13-year-old boy. All the nation is discussing it.
   I slip onto the train at a quarter till 8. The other passengers are discussing the story. Some are taking in the news on their iPhones. Some, like me, are reading hard-copy newspapers. I look up, and see a contingent of people coming down the aisle, singing. They are dressed in costumes, for it is Halloween. Some are dressed as ghouls, some as witches, and some as devils. They sing their well-crafted songs, and then pass through to the next car on the train.
  But, one of them comes back. He steps to his right, then to his left, as if dancing. "What have we forgotten to tell you?" he asks. "Did you hear what little Brighton Billie has to say?"
   He paused, having our attention.
   "Billie would have you believe we should all throw away our guns. He quotes from scripture, something about people turning their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks."
   Out of all the people in the car, he looks at me, staring through a lop of long tangling hair that covers his face. "I'm here to warn you not listen to him. He quotes the scripture wrong. That scripture has nothing to do with what is going on. We must protect ourselves. We know what happens when people do not have guns to defend themselves.
   "I am of the Catalans," he says, as he swings around and walks away. And, I know he doesn't mean he is literally from Catalonia, but rather from a group in the U.S. taking its name from the breakaway Spanish province, calling themselves the Catalans.
   I exit the train at the Mallburst Station. Red's Tavern is but a short block away. As I walk in, those waiting me stand, snapping their heels together and saluting -- in a Nazi salute. "Did you bring the papers?" they ask.
   I drop the papers on the table. "You are free to have them," I say. "But, I have come to tell you that you have taken me for a friend, when I am not. You have supposed me to be one of you, even thinking I might step in and lead you. For that, you invited me here."
   I am interrupted at that point. Brighton Billie's face comes onto the television screen, a screen so large it covers the whole of the tavern wall, with Brighton Billie's face being as large as a semi truck.
"Oh, please, listen!" Brighton Billie says, and the words echo in my head. "I may be but a child, but I hope you will listen. You do not need to worship your guns. They need not be your heroes. Everyone does not need to have them. They will tell you that you will not be able to protect yourselves from crime, and will not be able to protect yourselves from government gone astray. I will tell you, though, crime does not go rampant. I will tell you that, yes, it is important to have armed forces to protect your land, and it is important to have enough police officers to protect the populace.
   "But, this idea that everyone ought to have a shotgun in their closet, it is not wise. Weapons stored become weapons used. Suicides rise. I am not saying there are not things greater than gun ownership that prompt suicides, but guns do add to the problem. Crime rises in societies where guns are a-plenty. I do not say guns are the only factor. You can watch crime decline while gun ownership increases. Still, guns are a big contributor. If everyone has a gun, then both those who are good and those who are bad have them. The bad will surely use them while they sit idly in homes of the good, often waiting until a criminal steals them. If the bad have guns, the nature of their crimes will tend to be worse. You can't keep bad folks from committing crimes, but the nature of their crimes will not be as horrendous if they do not have the tools to make them horrendous."
   The bar owner strides along the bar, picking up the remote and turning the television off. "Qs!" he yells. "You are not here to listen to this garbage. Don't listen to it. Our government is corrupt. It is stealing away our freedoms. All across the nation, we, the people, are rising up to save this nation. The Constitution calls for militias of the people and we now have militia after militia after militia set to attack at once. In addition to the QRace, we have the Catalans and the Zee Bees -- just here in this city. The whole nation has organized into militias, ready to rise up and strike against the tyranny of a government astray, a government that no longer adheres to that which is right and no longer follows the Constitution of the United States."
   The barkeep turns and looks at me. "Then, sir, if you have a plan of action -- is that it you have left on the table?"
  "You are free to have it," I calmly reply. I turn to walk out, leaving them to review the 200 or so pages, page after page saying the self-same thing, the words to an old peace song, once sang by Simon and Garfunkel, Joan Baez, Johnny Cash and others.

   As I walk out the door, the first of a large group of people brushes past me and enters the bar. At first, I think it is the same chorus of Catalans who had been on the bus, but it isn't, though they, too, are dressed in costume -- attires ranging from that of Little Red Riding Hood to Dr. Seuss to Mary Poppins -- not a one being violent themed.

  As they start singing, the words waffle back through the door. I turn in shock, for the song is the very song whose words I left on the table.

Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war
I dreamed I saw a mighty room
The room was filled with men
And the paper they were signing said
They'd never fight again

And when the papers all were signed
And a million copies made
They all joined hands and bowed their heads
And grateful prayers were prayed
And the people in the streets below
Were dancing round and round
And guns and swords and uniforms
Were scattered on the ground

Last night I had the strangest dream

I ever dreamed before

I dreamed the world had all agreed

To put an end to war

   I listen to the words of the song, staying till it is finished, then turn again, to walk back to the train station, I think about Brighton Billie, the Catalans, the QRace and this chorus -- who were they? -- and the notion that people should give up their guns. I can see the danger of guns, but I am not sure it means we should give them up. 

   I watch the southbound train pass, and continue waiting the northbound, still thinking. I pick up a rock and -- reflecting on the QRace and other militias -- throw it angrily back to the pavement. It caroms off into the parking lot, endangering cars  that should be sitting in peace and not endangered. I think of how I do not like it that militias are rising up against my country. I think of how Americans do not know the danger they are facing from them.  I think of this one militia, the QRace. Whatever of the other militias, I certainly am not in agreement with it. 

Note: Story edited and changed 11/4/17

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