Chasing Schrödinger’s Cat - A Steampunk Novel Read Free Page A

I’m OK but still
have a tendency to rush my shots.
    If you aren’t into handguns, the
differences between Bill’s interests and mine probably don’t seem like much,
but to the range warden who makes up the schedule, we’re as far apart as
Episcopalians and Southern Baptists.   As
a result, Bill and I never shoot at the same time.
    But this one day, I was going to
the range and I saw this big, bewildered-looking guy surrounded by a pack of feminazis - sorry, progressive, socially-conscious young women.   He looked for all the world like a fat
raccoon that’s been treed by a pack of dogs.
    Did I mention the range is attached
to the ROTC building?   The result is that
you sometimes have to run a gauntlet of protesters to get inside.   Usually they ignore the civilians and wait to
hassle someone in uniform but I guess they were on a tight schedule this
particular day and had to settle for Bill.
    I could hear all the usual taunts. ‘Big gun, small penis, NRA flunky, gun
culture buffoon.’   You get used to
that holier-than-thou stuff from non-believers.
    But as I got closer I could see
that one of Bill’s most vocal persecutors was none other than Mary Lou
Bernstein, the fellatio queen.   I was
offended.   People with trust funds have
no business lecturing others on social responsibilities.
    “Well blow me down,” I said, “If it
isn’t Mary Lou Bernstein.   You ought to
be more careful of that nice Hermes scarf.   Looks like you’ve got a couple of spots on it.”   I made a coughing noise and wiped my hand
over my mouth.   “Sorry,” I
continued.   “I seem to have something
stuck in my throat.”
    Mary Lou’s face went beet red and
she muttered something about ‘not wasting any more time with these morons’
before scurrying off down the street.   Her companions exchanged looks of confusion and followed her.
    I saw Mary Lou being interviewed on
TV a couple of weeks later.   It was
during the Pacific Rim Leaders’ Conference and she was acting as the spokesperson
for a group calling themselves ‘The Black Brigade’ with her face covered like
an old-west train robber.
    “We did it to draw the Fascist
police away so that our brothers and sisters could expose the hypocrisy of this
so-called conference,” she said, to explain why she and her black-clad chums
had just broken the front windows of a Seattle Starbucks.   “We contend that property destruction is not
a violent activity unless it destroys lives or causes pain in the process.”   How did I know it was her?   Her bandit bandanna was that same Hermes
scarf.   It’s not every day you see an
anarchist wearing a three hundred and fifty dollar fashion accessory.
    It would be an understatement to
say Bill was grateful.   He shook my hand
like he was trying to see if it would come off and invited me for a beer back at
the aforementioned boneyard .   There we began the first of a series of
discussions on the nature of truth and the relative merits of domestic and
foreign beers.
    Bill was a romantic, like so many
men with rough exteriors.   His views on
women were particularly idealistic.   For
example, he had jumped to Mary Lou Bernstein’s defense when I criticized her
for getting in his face outside the range.
    “She’s probably just lonely,” he
said.   “It’s her way of connecting with
other people.   Anyhow, it was nice having
a pretty girl pay attention to me, even if she was getting spittle on my
shirt.”
    “Would you go out with her?”
    “As if she’d look twice at me.”
    I had been about to tell him about
Mary Lou’s ongoing affair with Ross Percival but held off.   It would have been like that scene in Cultural Learnings Of America For Make Benefit Glorious Nation Of Kazakhstan   where the frat boys show Pamela Anderson’s sex
tape to Borat.
    There was one topic on which Bill’s
ideas were strictly practical.   Beer.    “Some beer is better than others,” was his
view, “but as long as it’s not