We had just found a small patch of shade at the No Kings rally when Herself showed me the first reports of the assassinations in Minnesota.

Another psycho with a gun.

The first one I can remember was John F. Kennedy. I was nine. Next was Malcolm X. Then Martin Luther King. Bobby Kennedy. Fred Hampton. Harvey Milk. John Lennon. The list goes on.

Tell you what. This sort of thing does not make you feel good about being in a strange place surrounded by people you don’t know, with a DJ working one side of the park and some sort of drum circle going in the other.

Herself caught me looking around and wondered why.

“I’m trying to make sure I know how we can get the hell out of here,” I said.

She thought I meant at the end of the festivities. I was thinking about the beginning of someone’s fantasies.

A young woman came up with a tray of sliced bananas and oranges and asked if I’d like something.

“No, I’m good,” I replied. “But thanks just the same.” Head still on a swivel.

Paranoia strikes deep 
Into your life it will creep 
It starts when you’re always afraid 
Step out of line, the men come and take you away

I tried to cling to the spirit of the moment — small-d democrats old and young and in between, with imaginative signs and fashion choices, dancing, music — Sly and the Family Stone’s “Stand,” because of course “Stand” — but it slipped away from me. It was a large park, but a cramped space, with a lot of noise and people milling around and a sound system that was not up to the task.

We about half heard Rep. Melanie Stansbury from the drum circle, then changed locations to see if we could find a better listening post. Nope.

I tapped Herself on the shoulder and gave her the old thumb over the shoulder.

“Ready to beat it? ” I asked. She was. We did.

I’m glad we went. I’d do it again tomorrow. I’ll do it as long as I can still take some hope from it.

Because it beats the mortal shit out of killing people.