My husband chides me for reading stories that are upsetting. He says, "Don't click!" regarding anything that might be at all tawdry, sickening or scary, concerned that it will remind me of my childhood. (Ha!) But today I chose to read one with the headline, "Freelance Journalist's Body Parts Found." I mean, I am a freelance journalist after all, and surely I should stay abreast of the possible perils of the job.Turns out it was a very gruesome story and I'm sorry I read it. In my emotionally frail condition it got me weeping -- for the dead woman and for her parents and for society as a whole which spawns monsters who chop people up willy-nilly. After blowing my nose, I pondered if perhaps my freelance journalism days are over. Either that or I have to stop reading stories about strangers. Possibly I'm done with strangers altogether. I mean, how are they my business?
Currently the national obsession with the lives of strangers is in the forefront, with story after story about last week's victims of the Las Vegas tragedy. Their faces fill our TV screens and newspapers, with short bios describing each and every last one of them as "the best person you could ever hope to meet." The women were all beautiful with so much potential, and the men were all brave and died while shielding someone else. Each one always had a smile on his or her face, were loved by all their coworkers, brightened up any room they entered, were devoted to their families and would have given you the shirt off their back. By some crazy coincidence, those random strangers from all walks of life who assembled in Vegas to listen to country music were all saints. What are the chances?
I don't own a gun. I've never even seen a gun, unless the ones you get playing Laser Tag count. I am washing my hands of the whole affair, staying away from the news and unless Jackson Browne comes back to Portland, definitely avoiding concert venues. As for now, I may clean the refrigerator.
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