Everyman Copes

As a school bus driver, I am usually free from about 9:30-1:30. Most days, I go home for a nap. On Hitler's birthday, my mother woke me, screaming, "All hell's broken loose at Columbine!" Groggily, the enormity of the event began to sink in.
I made it to work around 1:30. One of the drivers, Val, had just left a home full of hysterical kids. Her niece and a bunch of friends had fled there when the shooting began. Val seemed just barely holding together.

We had two old televisions at my terminal, donated by the drivers. Needless to say, we were all glued to the sets. At that time, our supervisors had to wait for the police to determine the extent of the cordon sanitaire around Columbine. All Jefferson County schools were in lockdown. Some Denver schools also locked down.

Finally, they sent us all to our first schools, even though they were still in lockdown. I sat alone in my bus at Carmody, listening to KHOW continuous news coverage. After 20 minutes or so, a kid (perhaps high school) asked me what was happening. I (inappropriately) blurted, "Some little shitheads at Columbine are shooting people!" The kid said, "Oh!" and walked on.

About 15 minutes later, Carmody let the kids out. They had just a vague idea of what was happening. When someone said there were kids shooting guns at Columbine, a few of the boys reacted, "Wow! Cool!" I had expected this, but lacked the heart to throw an appropriate fit. I just quietly asked them whether they wished to listen to music or the news. They all wanted to hear the news. As it became clear that many Columbine students were seriously wounded, a somber mood took over. We left the school. I made extra stops. Several parents were outside or at the bus stops waiting for their kids. I wondered how many would be enrolled at private schools the following year.

My elementary students seemed unaffected by the tragedy. I put on the music, keeping up the daily routine.

I finished my route and returned to the terminal around 5:00. The Hitler worship of the lost boys was being reported. I slammed my fist on the table and bellowed: I knew it! Little fucking Nazis!" I watched television until the office shut down at 5:30. Erin (a lovely young woman who must have been absent the day Generation X passed out the armor) and I were the last to leave.

As I was driving home, I decided to see how my best friend, Bill Wright, was doing. Bill and I graduated from Lakewood High School in 1974, a class of 490. Bill graduated 245th. He is so average, I sometimes think of him as Everyman. He was born in Wellington, Ohio (sight of the Lorain County Fair in mid-August every year). During the 1850s, Lorain County was a major stop on the underground railroad. Personal liberty laws were taken seriously. There were several big trials in Wellington - test cases for the Federal Fugitive Slave Act. Prosecutors experienced great trouble finding juries willing to convict. The South was enraged. One historian even argues that the Civil War began in Lorain County. Bill descends from simple, decent people.

Bill is non-violent, almost to a Jain extreme. He won't kill bugs in his house. He sweeps them up onto a piece of paper and evicts them to the garden. (My maternal grandfather used to do the same thing.) Bill teaches and coaches track at Lakewood. When I came by on Hitler's birthday, he was glued to the television. Until that moment, I had not thought about the people I know at Columbine. Bill, on the other hand, had thought of little else. He was scanning the coverage, each camera angle, looking at the people in the background. He spotted Andy Lowry, the football coach (and one of Bill's former students)at Leawood Elementary. He also spotted Ivory Moore, the track coach, Ivory is black, so there was reason to worry that the lost boys might have made him a special target. We never saw Rudy Martin, the basketball coach (Lakewood class of 1972). Usually, I would see Rudy's wife, Jan, at Peiffer. But not that day.

By the time I got to Bill's house, it was rumored that Dave Sanders might be wounded, perhaps from doing something heroic. To Bill, who knew his colleague well, that heroism seemed plausible. It also seemed plausible that Rudy might react in a similar way. Jan thought so. She dashed from Peiffer straight to Clement Park. While searching, a reporter stuck a microphone in her face. Jan slapped it away, saying, "I'm looking for my husband!" Eventually, she found him.

Rudy began that day way behind on his paperwork. To catch up, he traded Commons duty with Patty Neilsen. He was alone in his classroom when all hell broke loose. Patty took a bullet in her shoulder. She took charge of a group in the library. She called 9-1-1. She accurately described her location and immediate peril to the dispatcher. Somehow, this information was not relayed to the SWAT teams in a timely or prioritized manner. The lost boys found the library - and lambs for slaughter. Meanwhile, Rudy got himself and about 30 kids safely out of the school.

That night Jan received about 500 phone calls. One was from Bill, voice cracking with sorrow.