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22 December 2023
My mother owned what I consider to be the most beautiful firearm I'd ever seen. It was a nickel-plated .38 Police Special, and it could be found just about anywhere in the house: next to the phone, atop a stack of magazines, in a basket of laundry-- wherever my mother happened to leave it lying loaded. The weight thrilled me. I'd often heft the pistol about the house whenever no one was looking. At eight, I understood the redneck pride involved in packing heat.
On Fridays, my mother went to work before my sister and I came home from school, and my father arrived home from work sometime thereafter. Oblivious to the concept of marital separation, I was simply thrilled to be left to my own devices for a couple of hours, allowing me to peruse those things I wasn't to touch, like the cutlery and my mother's porn catalogs. One particular Friday, I spoke to my mom on the phone for a few minutes. The few minutes it took for my mother to assure herself we weren't getting into anything was the few minutes it took to cock the loaded, nickel-plated .38 Police Special.
Though the ratchet-like sound of the hammer locking into position was exhilarating, the realization that I'd have my ass kicked when my mother got home was awful. I panicked. I knew nothing of how a gun worked, but I'd have to fix this mistake before anyone came home. My mind reeled and my gears turned as I studied the gun. Then, a low-watt bulb appeared above my head: I'd simply pull the trigger. Not enough to fire the gun, of course, but just enough to uncock it. So, standing in the kitchen, hefting the weighty revolver in my tiny hands, I closed my eyes and squeezed.
The roar was deafening.
The bullet had passed through every possible item in the kitchen before curiously dropping a TV Guide into a frying pan on the stove. It ate a hole into my mother's cabinet, destroying half her crystal stemware. The bullet then split-- half of it went into the opposite cabinet to finish off the stemware and the other half split the light switch. My sister stood screaming and biting her fingers until they bled. I sent her to bed so I could think a moment. First, I employed a technique for clearing gun smoke I'd learned from watching Kojak-- I dampened a towel and slung it around like a terry towel lasso to absorb the smoke. I then tried to pick up all the debris scattering the kitchen, though I found out later I'd left the TV Guide on the stove. Then, I went to bed. I slept. I slept for over 24 hours, thinking if I slept forever, I'd never have to face the music.
My mother's very non-musical face woke me up that fateful day later.
Facing the consequences can be a real bitch.
On Fridays, my mother went to work before my sister and I came home from school, and my father arrived home from work sometime thereafter. Oblivious to the concept of marital separation, I was simply thrilled to be left to my own devices for a couple of hours, allowing me to peruse those things I wasn't to touch, like the cutlery and my mother's porn catalogs. One particular Friday, I spoke to my mom on the phone for a few minutes. The few minutes it took for my mother to assure herself we weren't getting into anything was the few minutes it took to cock the loaded, nickel-plated .38 Police Special.
Though the ratchet-like sound of the hammer locking into position was exhilarating, the realization that I'd have my ass kicked when my mother got home was awful. I panicked. I knew nothing of how a gun worked, but I'd have to fix this mistake before anyone came home. My mind reeled and my gears turned as I studied the gun. Then, a low-watt bulb appeared above my head: I'd simply pull the trigger. Not enough to fire the gun, of course, but just enough to uncock it. So, standing in the kitchen, hefting the weighty revolver in my tiny hands, I closed my eyes and squeezed.
The roar was deafening.
The bullet had passed through every possible item in the kitchen before curiously dropping a TV Guide into a frying pan on the stove. It ate a hole into my mother's cabinet, destroying half her crystal stemware. The bullet then split-- half of it went into the opposite cabinet to finish off the stemware and the other half split the light switch. My sister stood screaming and biting her fingers until they bled. I sent her to bed so I could think a moment. First, I employed a technique for clearing gun smoke I'd learned from watching Kojak-- I dampened a towel and slung it around like a terry towel lasso to absorb the smoke. I then tried to pick up all the debris scattering the kitchen, though I found out later I'd left the TV Guide on the stove. Then, I went to bed. I slept. I slept for over 24 hours, thinking if I slept forever, I'd never have to face the music.
My mother's very non-musical face woke me up that fateful day later.
Facing the consequences can be a real bitch.
artid
80
Old Image
4_7_gunkid.swf
issue
vol 4 - issue 07 (mar 2002)
section
pen_think