A Typical Day Shattered All Too Typically

America, a shooting gallery. A couple of disturbed kids in Colorado. A suicidal day trader in Atlanta. A deranged drive-by shooter in Chicago. And a civilization growing increasingly afraid of its uncivilized, fearful not only of stepping outside, but also of being “safely” indoors at work or school.

10:49 a.m.: Just a typical Tuesday midsummer’s morning at 16601 W. Rinaldi St., Granada Hills, a normal American neighborhood, a serene Los Angeles suburb, sunny day, ordinary people.

Isabelle Shalometh is at work. A woman in her 60s, “a wonderful person, beloved by everyone,” according to her boss. A tough lady, a good person, “the first person that greets you” when you walk through the doorway of the North Valley Jewish Community Center, in the words of her daughter.

A man walks through the doorway.

What kind of man, that won’t be clear for a while. A young man? Another dangerous teenager? That’s the word at first. A white teen, black shirt, gray pants, 5-10, 170 pounds. Armed with a 9-millimeter Uzi.

No, not a teen. That’s the word later. A middle-age male, 40s, balding . . . white, yes, but green garb.

Whoever he is, he begins shooting.

A bullet hits Isabelle Shalometh. She sinks to the lobby floor, crawls off toward an office while the man keeps firing. Firing bullets at children.

*

Quarter till 11 and Jeffrey L. Rouss is also at work. He is executive vice president not only of North Valley, but also of Jewish community centers throughout the L.A. area.

His niece and nephew are here at the center today.

Rouss is in a meeting with another vice president and an associate director. As many as 250 children are enjoying the center’s activities this day, some in day care, some in camp, some of the older kids on a field trip to a museum.

The associate director’s son and daughter are also here.

Rouss’ phone rings.

10:50 a.m., maybe 10:51: Paramedics are already pulling up.

“Our officers were on the scene in seconds,” a fire captain, Steve Ruda, will later say. “They were in the area, maybe three blocks away.”

The gunman is already gone. Left behind are his empty rounds, shell casings strewn all over the lobby’s floor. Left behind are his victims, a senior citizen, a girl of 16 and three kids under 10.

A child shot in the hip. Another child shot in the foot. And a child shot from behind . . . somebody aimed a gun at a 5-year-old boy’s back and shot him.

Little bodies carried away on stretchers.

“The worst-case scenario for firefighters,” says Ruda, describing what he knows of the children’s wounds, where they were hit, where they were sent.

12:17 a.m.: For a horrifying hour and a half, parents have been picking up phones, being told about gunfire, that children have been hospitalized, that they had better drive to Rinaldi Street and hurry.

Some shout out names of their kids, asking if anyone knows where they are.

Some duck under yellow police tape, trying to find out for themselves.

A man breaks into a run. He dashes toward the center, but is tackled, handcuffed and escorted away.

Tactical squad cops mobilize on the street, heavily armed. They point rifles as they explore door to door, trailing dogs.

They don’t know where the gunman is.

He could be anywhere, anyone. The prime suspects in Colorado were found dead at the scene. The gunman in Georgia tried to get away, was spotted at a gas station, did himself in. The drive-by killer in Illinois kept driving, fled until he was found dead, before anyone could get any answers.

*

A man stands atop a truck, seeking answers: “My God, how can this happen to preschoolers? Where can we send our children that’s safe?”

2:22 p.m.: Lucille Shalometh Golden says her mother is doing well, “in good spirits.” In good spirits. Everyone gets what she means.

2:36 p.m.: Jeffrey Rouss has just used the word “beloved” to describe Isabelle Shalometh. He thinks of her being shot, of children shot. He says: “When I was a kid, and my mother would watch soap operas, I’d say: ‘Those aren’t real.’

“I’ve come to learn that soap operas are real. We seem to be in another soap opera every day.”

*

Mike Downey’s column appears Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Write to him at Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles 90053. E-mail: mike.downey@latimes.com