Leon Czolgosz stands nervously in line waiting his chance at reception. His hair is freshly cut, and cleanly shaved, Emma would be proud of him. Sure his wool three piece suit weighs heavily in the thick New York heat, and his handkerchief is visibly wrapped up in his hand, but whose isn’t? Late September, but still the summer won’t end. All this is unimportant anyway: the Temple of music, the new electric light display, the whole exposition, really, along with its millions of visitors. No the only thing that matters is the large man awaiting him at the end of the line. There he stands, his straight posture with his large stomach protruding in front. His face clean shaven, his three piece, of only the finest materials, neatly pressed. Czolgosz wraps his handkerchief tighter around his hand, absorbing the moisture, reminding him of his purpose.
He is no longer Leon Czolgosz; he reminds himself, no longer the poor factory worker from Detroit, no longer the son of Polish immigrants. No he is Fred C. Neiman, an American.
“He’s a fine man.” The large black man standing behind him is practically dancing in place.
“Excuse me?” Neiman had been absorbed in his thoughts, a practice he is growing fonder and fonder of, withdrawing to one of the few places that make sense. This man’s statement has caught him off guard.
“The President, William McKinley. I will say to him, Mr. President my name is Tracy Parker, and it is my honor to meet you, Sir. He is a fine man to be sure. “Neiman again retreats.
He begins to think of Gaetano Bresci, and the fine services he has done for his country. He thinks of Abraham Isaak, the coward who has turned against him in his publishing’s. He thinks of true freedom, the good people: the working classes. He thinks of equality. How can one man have so little and one so much? Is this American? Finely he thinks of Emma, what she has done for him, how she had opened his eyes. If only she knew he was standing there right now, she would be proud.
Closer now, soon he will have his say. Soon he will look the President in the eyes and it will all be clear. McKinley will see it, the unfair working conditions, the violence it has caused, the helplessness, the poverty, the death. He will see how a world with such segregation could never work, how equality among all is the only way. How religion, with its false hopes, is hiding the true injustice, injustice of the world, injustice of America! He will see it, and Neiman will show him.
It is his turn now. The child before him has had her moment, her awkward smile, her excitement at meeting the great man, her nervous skip back to her parents. It is Neiman’s turn. Not Neiman, Czolgosz. He is still Leon Czolgosz, and he will have his say. McKinley is talking, not even paying attention. His attention is split, half focused, a second spared for the no one in front of him, his great smile, his outspread hand. Czolgosz extends his own hand, knocking McKinley’s aside, his handkerchief falls, and his hand tightens around the .32 Iver-Johnson, he fires the revolver twice.
Everything is slow. McKinley falls, as Czolgosz drops his pistol, he is vaguely aware of Tracy Parker wrestling him to the ground. McKinley declares, “Don’t be too hard on him boys!” and promptly passes out. Czolgosz is surrounded. They are arresting him, preparing his evacuation. He is confused. He has spent so much time in his own mind that the new found excitement is disconnecting. He must collect his thoughts. They have him now, they are hustling him out, it is his last chance, and finally he speaks, “I have done my duty, I am not sorry.”
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