Wolf Hour

54 Hero, October 2016

Bob crossed the street from Town Taxidermy and walked toward the SWAT car where Walker stood. His face and posture gave nothing away, but Bob took the warmth in his voice as recognition.

‘Good work, Oz.’

Bob pressed his ID card into Walker’s hand and kept walking. Passing the police car he retrieved his mustard-yellow cashmere coat, then ducked under the police tape and slipped away through the spectators. Fortunately, no one seemed to realise he had just played a central role in the drama they had witnessed. Then came a loud, authoritative female voice:

‘Bob Oz!’

He looked up and recognised the face of the TV reporter from the sports bar. The same guy holding the camera on his shoulder behind her. A red lamp blinked above the lens and Bob assumed it meant they were on air and live. They backed away in front of him and slowed down, but he didn’t stop.

‘Can you describe how you felt in the middle of all this drama?’ The reporter put the question with exaggerated body language and a bright red, ingratiating smile as she pushed the microphone into his face.

‘Yes, I can,’ said Bob, and her smile grew even wider. ‘But not to you.’ He looked straight into the camera. ‘Viewers, change the channel to WCCO and you’ll hear my whole story. You’ll also get better news there. You’ll even get better weather.’

As he walked on in the direction of his Volvo Bob registered the crestfallen look on the reporter’s face.

A young man with a shoulder bag appeared beside him.

‘From the Star Tribune. That was some answer you just gave!’ He laughed and sounded as though he meant it. ‘But are you sure you wouldn’t rather talk to a proper newspaper than WCCO?’

‘I was kidding,’ said Bob. ‘I don’t want to talk to anyone. OK?’

‘I understand,’ said the young man. But kept trotting alongside Bob. ‘Right now you just want to be left in peace. But once things have quieted down, maybe we can talk then. Here’s my card.’

Bob stopped by the Volvo, picked up the parking ticket wedged under the wipers, took the card in order to get rid of the guy and stuffed both into his coat pocket.

‘You’ll get column inches with us,’ said the young man.

‘What would I want column inches for?’

The boy shrugged. ‘To say what you think about this. About Lunde. About his project.’

‘His project?’

‘If the rumour that he is actually Tomás Gomez is correct then it looks like all of this was a political attack on the NRA and the gun laws. From today on you’re a hero, whether you like it or not, and right now people in this state will be interested to hear your opinions. We’ve got a presidential election coming up and research shows that the majority of people make up their mind which way to vote the last two days before the election. I don’t know where you stand politically on gun control or anything else, and it really doesn’t matter to me. But just think about it, Mr Oz — right at this moment in time there’s a small window open for you when you do actually have some kind of power.’

Bob unlocked the Volvo. ‘You think I can change anything?’

‘Contribute to change, perhaps.’

Bob looked across the roof of the car at the boy standing on the other side. His cheeks were flushed. He looked as if he cared about things, looked like a decent kid.

‘You’re an optimist,’ said Bob. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Bob.’

‘Another one?’ He laughed. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘OK. I envy you, Bob.’

‘Envy me being twenty-two?’

‘That as well.’

The older Bob got into his car and started the engine. As he drove off he looked in the mirror and saw the boy following with his eyes. A naive optimist, twenty-two years old. Had he once been like that himself? Bob hoped so. And he hoped that it was the Bob in the mirror who would use the little bit of power he had, not himself. The city — and the world — needed naive optimists more than it needed resigned realists.