The Scopophiliac's Gift Shop

Inside the Sixth Floor Museum, I stood near the window where Lee Harvey Oswald waited to fatally shoot John F. Kennedy. My coworkers and I were in Dallas for a conference and were having difficulty finding anything to do outside the convention center, a problem that persisted inside the museum. After an $18 fee, this—assuming a loose approximation of Oswald's vantage point—was very nearly the only exhibit they had to offer.

Other displays: Lee Harvey Oswald's wedding band, enclosed in a thick glass case like its loss would be historically significant; a replica of Lee Harvey Oswald's rifle aimed down sights; the handcuffs Lee Harvey Oswald wore when he was shot two days after the assassination. In the gift shop, 1963 newsprint had been alchemized into cardstock souvenirs—guests could take home decorative headlines like "Assassin Kills Kennedy" and "Sniper Kills President." It was only in front of a mannequin modeling the suit a Dallas police officer was wearing the day Oswald died that I diagnosed my disappointment. I'd thought the story of the museum would be about victimhood—how a widowed Jackie Kennedy guided her children through premature mourning, or maybe a less invasive consideration of a nation's grief after its violent loss of stability was looped on television. But even a president's death couldn't shift the focus from the murderer to the murdered. Ring, rifle, cuff, suit—thoroughly costumed in the narrative of the killer, I stepped forward to take his place at the window. Below me, on the bend of Elm Street, an X was painted on the concrete. This spot marked JFK's exact position when his head absorbed its fatal bullet.

________

"I'm going to blow your fucking brains out."

My mother is in our home with a man who is threatening to kill her. I'm outside, standing on the frosted lawn, and I answer the police dispatcher's question when she asks it a second time: "Yes, I believe him."

The next day, the resulting police standoff gets front-page placement in our small mountain town's newspaper. The boyfriend's name and biography is printed after the lede. My mother and I are only referred to as "the victim" and "the victim's daughter." We are told this was done to protect us. No reporter ever asks for our comments.

________

Scopophilia describes the pleasure we derive from looking at something—usually, another person.

________

In 1984, photographer Nan Goldin released a self-portrait titled, Nan One Month After Being Battered. She wears a string of pearls; extravagant earrings tangle in her hair. Her makeup: a glossy red lipstick that emphasizes the lack of concealer applied to two bruised eyes. Blood pools in her left cornea like an oil spill. Goldin stares directly into the camera, unsmiling. Her eyes say, I'm forcing you to look at this. They say, You want to believe I'm forcing you to look at this.

________

At one o'clock on a night in 2003, my mother parks our car at a 7-Eleven that is currently being robbed. I was bribed into getting out of bed with the promise of a new pack of Pokémon cards, but I'm not allowed to leave the Mustang. I watch her walk inside. Eight Tampa police officers watch her as well. They've been waiting for this moment—they have, in fact, orchestrated this chain of events, arranged its key players like set pieces on a stage.

ACT 1

ROBBER:

[Crouches behind the counter, waiting for someone to enter. His palm sweats around the handle of a Glock he may have borrowed from his brother.]

POLICE:

[Observe from rows of undercover cars. They can already arrest the robber for holding the 7-Eleven employees hostage, but if they wait for him to threaten a 37-year-old VICTIM needing a late night Marlboro, they'll prosecute him with still more felony assault charges. He is seventeen years old. They want him in prison for the rest of his life.]

TAMPA, FLORIDA:

[Is remembered as an...