By Louis Greenstein

“… a [June 3, 2022 CBS and YouGov] poll shows that 44% of Republicans believe mass shootings are ‘something we have to accept as part of a free society.’”

My wife Penny and I live what you could call a charmed life. We’re semi-retired. I’m a writer and a book editor. Been a freelancer for most of my career, and over the past few years I’ve been slowing down. Penny is a retired school administrator. We’re not rich, but we’re comfortable. Two years ago we bought a place on the bay by the Jersey shore, about three miles from Atlantic City and Ventnor. A seven-minute drive to the ocean. Which we take a few times a week, all year around. There’s nothing like a long walk on the beach in the winter (as long as you’re bundled up and well armed). The sound of the waves rolling in and the feel of the ocean breeze always makes me feel good. It’s pretty much my favorite place. Penny’s too. We love it here.

Yesterday was a typical summer beach day. I knocked off my work at 3:00. Penny, who works independently as freelance mediator once a week, had the day off. We keep a couple beach chairs in the back of the car, so it’s super easy. Penny threw two water bottles, sunscreen, her .22 and my .38 in a beach bag, we hopped into the Toyota, and off we went. I know what you’re thinking: How can you go to the beach without an assault rifle? Am I right? Let me guess. You don’t live down here. You don’t know. You believe what you see on the news. But think about it. All we had to do was walk from the front door to the Toyota which is in our carport, and it’s not like we don’t know our neighbors. Then walk from where we park on Atlantic Avenue one block to the beach. Besides, If I’m schlepping two beach chairs, how am I supposed to carry my AR-15 let alone use it in a pinch. I mean, get real.

Anyway, like I said, it’s a straight four mile shot down the Black Horse Pike from our place. The traffic was light. Two what had to be road rage incidents, a mile or so apart on different sides of the pike. We zipped by the first one. The usual: two vehicles, one old white dude screaming his lungs out and another guy, maybe Hispanic, hard to tell, slumped against the driver’s door of his SUV with blood coming out his ear. We were going 50 mph, so hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure he was dead. Thoughts and prayers.

We had to slow down for the second road rager. Ironic because that was the one on the other side of the highway, but some of the wreckage had spilled over. Four cars piled up, first responders on the scene, looked like around seven or eight people dead. A cop was directing traffic around the pile-up. I rolled down the driver’s window. I could see a woman on her knees crying hysterically over a dead body. Maybe her husband’s? Or her kid’s? We were moving plus their head was blown off.  The woman she was pretty emotional. Wailing. Screaming. You know what that’s like. It’s interesting in a way, witnessing someone at the moment that their life changes like that. It’s hard to get used to. But you get used to it.

“Thoughts and prayers!” I called through the window.

“Thoughts and prayers!” Penny hollered from the passenger’s seat. By now we were passing the mess and picking up speed. “I don’t think she heard me,” said Penny.

“It’s the thought that counts,” I said.

Anyway, the beach was perfect. There were only two other groups around the spot we like, and I could tell right away they were good people. Very, very unlikely that anyone would get shot. Sometimes you just know. The group directly in front of us was a bunch of kids from the university. Black, white, and brown—beautiful young people, all in great shape. The guys tossed a Frisbee around. The girls lay on their bellies on blankets on the sand, kicking up their legs and laughing. These were some happy young people — I can tell you that. I can tell you that they felt as safe as we did. All their sidearms stashed on a spare blanket, and they were really enjoying themselves.

To our left was a family: mom and dad, and four kids who looked like they ranged from age 7 to 16. The kids were all playing nicely together, digging in the sand, watching a crab crawl around a damp towel. Their dad looked at Penny and me and gave a tentative wave. He was wearing a Phillies cap.

“Who’s pitching tonight?” I asked, pointing to my own forehead.

“Zander, I think,” said the dad.

“They are looking good,” I said, pulling off my tee shirt so Penny could slop sunscreen on my back. “I’m Larry, this is my wife Penny. How ya doing.”

“Doing good. I’m Matt, this is Doris, and the two little ones are ours. The big ones are my brother’s kids. His wife got killed in the King of Prussia shooting last week. We’re giving him a little time.”

“Thoughts and prayers,” said Penny.

“Thoughts and prayers,” I said.

“Thanks,” said Matt. “I’ll pass that on to him.”

Anyway, the ocean was especially beautiful yesterday. Wave after wave lapping the shore. The sky was so blue, just breathtaking to behold. I watched a few puffy clouds float by, then one of those airplanes pulling a banner ad for a gun shop in Margate.

Penny pulled a novel she’s reading out of her beach bag. I set my eyes on the water. Okay, I’ll admit this to you, and it’s not like Penny doesn’t know it herself: I set half an eye on the college girls in front of us. I’m too old for particularly lascivious thoughts, but watching those girls lying in the sun, then rolling over and getting up, dashing to the water, laughing, sand on their feet, their legs bronzed, their butts just perfect in their bikinis, their hair blowing in the breeze. It was quietly intoxicating.

I heard a ringing in the distance. Before I could even form the thought, Matt and Doris’s kids yelled, “Ice cream man! Ice cream man!”

“Did you bring some cash?” Penny asked me.

“Yes, indeed.” Slowly, very slowly, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet.

Matt called over to us, “We can handle the exchange for all of us. You guys too!” he hollered to the college kids.

“Thanks, man!” one of the kids called back. A couple of them reached slowly into their bags to get their money.

The smallest of Matt and Doris’s two kids stepped slowly toward the oncoming ice cream man, pushing his cart of frozen delights. Matt smiled. “Matilda here has survived three school shootings and she’s only 8!” Proud dad.

“Wow,” I said. “You’re a brave girl, Matilda. Thoughts and prayers!”

“Thoughts and prayers,” said Penny to the girl.

Matilda knew the drill. She presented herself to the ice cream man who held a Glock 9-millimeter to her temple. Gently. Real gently. She’s just a kid. But you have to see it from the ice cream man’s point of view. He can’t walk up and down that beach all day, stopping every few minutes to use both hands to dispense ice cream and make change. He’d be dead in ten minutes thoughts and prayers. The exchange system makes perfect sense. It’s efficient and most of the time no one gets killed. Matilda didn’t even whimper while the college kids, and Penny and I, and Matilda’s parents, brother, and cousin took our ice cream sandwiches, water ice, cones, Frosties, and frozen Snickers from his chest stuffed with frozen desserts and dry ice. Then while the ice cream man waited with his gun held to the little girl’s temple, we put our cash in a box and took our change. Easy as pie. It only took a few minutes, and like I said, that girl was a real champ. It was so nice of her mom and dad to let her vouch for us and the college kids.

Anyway, the ice cream man gave Matilda her frozen fudge bar for free. It was really nice of him. She unwrapped the treat and backed away slowly. The college kids backed away slowly. Matt and Doris and the ice cream man backed away slowly.

We all backed away slowly.