A few days ago, a co-worker, Miranda Cisneros, and I had a discussion while lunching at the Spic and Span. Amazingly, we got three topics to coalesce: the death penalty, the Bank of Las Vegas time and temperature sign and President Bush’s overseas policies.
     For today, at least, I have an opinion, which changed only recently and which is subject to change without notice.


     We got on this discussion when Miranda insisted she was about to be late for work, pointing to the bank’s clock. I yanked out my GPS, which keeps time by satellite. “You still have six minutes. That clock is often six minutes fast. Even a stopped (analog) clock is correct twice a day. This (digital) clock, I’m afraid, will not be correct at any time today,” I answered.
     “But it says right there . . . .”
     Aha, gotcha! Let’s say we look at any clock with hands. There’s a good chance two people reading it will come up with slightly different times.
     However, a digital clock gives an exact time, but not necessarily the right time. So, digital is not necessarily more correct than analog, it’s just more emphatic. And of course, I told her about having lost three jobs recently due to perceived tardiness. “But boss, it is only 9 o’clock.” “Well that’s not what the bank clock says. You’re late again. Pick up your final paycheck.” Digital’s emphatic nature is kind of like the way voters admire the “resolute,” “steadfast” and “unwavering” President Bush, who never backed down on his stand on invading Iraq and even railed against John Kerry for his “flexibility” but which Bush calls “flip-flopping.” By the time I’d temporized and Miranda had extemporized on Bush, banks and bizcochitos, it really was 1 p.m. and time for Miranda to return to work.
     Do we want to be a slave to yesterday’s words? Is something I said in haste as a youth destined to conscript my actions for the rest of my life? What, then is wrong with changing one’s mind?
     A steadfast, resolute and unwavering professor I had in college paid dearly for a slip of the tongue. He used a double negative in going over the class requirements, with the result that he said there would be no final exam.
     Woo-hoo! An early break!
     One of us diplomatically tried to correct him, only to be shouted down with, “I know what I said.” So, we got an early exit from the class. Strange that we later saw his handouts which described the exam in detail, but because he was too resolute to admit his gaffe, we got an early winter break.
     Recently I led one of several discussion groups on the death penalty. We received instructions to respect other’s views, to allow them to draw their own conclusions, not to interfere or ridicule, and to invoke the slogan of the Other Las Vegas: “What you say here stays here.” My group generally opposed the death penalty, but one member said, “If it involved my own family, I’d want to fry the b_____ds.” Many of us have wrestled with the unthinkable notion of committing violence to protect a loved one. If it were within my power, I could become a quick executioner, with no regrets — until later. But that would happen only if my rage were immediate.
     The discussion — now a timely issue with the governor about to sign or veto legislation on the death penalty — allowed us to see other perspectives.
     One invariably hears, “With capital punishment, we’re reducing ourselves to their level.” Point well taken, but I believe many otherwise non-violent people wouldn’t hesitate to “reduce themselves to their level” if necessary. And we hear that you can’t right a wrong with another wrong. In my youth, and in fact, up until maybe yesterday, I’ve believed I would be able to pull a trigger, plug, switch, lever or a fast one to send John Wayne Gacy, Timothy McVeigh or Ted Bundy to meet their Maker. But just recently, after attending a well-publicized, wrenching, tear-filled sentencing hearing, I pondered my gung-ho, John Wayne mentality. I used to justify my support of the death penalty by the Phenomenon of Anonymity and Uncertainty. A firing squad, after all, is supposed to have a rifle or two loaded with blanks. So if all members of the squad aim at the heart and the convict dies, do we really know whose bullet killed him?
     Methods of execution are fraught with contradictions, in that many opponents of the electric chair cite the case in which death wasn’t immediate and the death-row inmate endured minutes of agonizing pain. Pain, I suppose, that’s comparable to that suffered by his victims.
     Another irony manifests itself in the act of having an execution official, presumably a doctor who administers the lethal injection, swab the condemned man’s arm with alcohol to make sure he doesn’t develop an infection a minute or two before death.
     Amazingly, Miranda and I ruminated on all these random thoughts by the time it took me to convince Miranda that she was indeed on time. And in the interim, I’ve changed my attitude and believe the death penalty is wrong.
     As luck would have it, the time-and-temp sign is back in sync, and it matches up perfectly the the Gordon’s and First National (analog) clocks. And there was a time when we could stand at Sixth and Douglas and see four clocks (Graham’s Pharmacy had one too), add up the times, divide by four and come up with the time I had on my watch in the first place.

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