While in Georgie’s side yard yesterday, a man in his early thirties approaches us, a salesman doing his thing. He has a tattoo on his neck, the number “17”, in blue ball point ink, the kind of tattoos which are generally made while one spends time incarcerated. I don’t ask him what it means but I am certainly curious.
Apparently he has his own curiosity because the next moment we are having the following exchange.
Him: “You’re an American, right?”
Me: “Yes. (laughing) Is it so easy to tell?”
Him: (A bit embarrassed) “Yes, sorry.”
Me: (sorry I embarrassed him)” Oh, don’t be sorry. I imagine my accent is easy to spot. I’m from Oregon.”
Him: “Right. Listen, I know this may be a bit random, but my friends and me have been having some discussions.” Pause. “Er, about…um, that shooting…um, in Florida.” Long pause.
Me: “Orlando?”
Him: “Yeah. Orlando. Bad, that.”
Me: “Yes, it was horrible. Another horrible mass shooting. It is beyond sad.”
Him: “Yeah, well that’s the thing. Some of my mates wonder if maybe it isn’t all a conspiracy.”
Me: (Surprised) “A conspiracy?”
Him: “Yeah. You know. Sandy Hook. Orlando. Texas.”
Me: “Oregon. My own state. Twice.”
Him: (Excitedly) “Yeah, right! So many of them. All of the time. We were thinking maybe it is a conspiracy, all of those shootings, to try to force gun control laws.”
Me: (Studying him quietly. Noticing the rest of his tattoos. Full arm with skeleton among them) 
“You know, I really don’t believe that it’s a conspiracy to force gun control.” (Becoming very serious) “I think it has to do with all of those things that contribute to mass shootings, like not enough jobs that pay living wages, not enough quality education for people, not enough mental health treatment, intolerance and bigotry. Homophobia. Religious fanatics. That kind of thing.”
He is thinking for moment, then, “Right, right. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Me: (very quietly) “I wish it did.” 