- November 23, 2024
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The night before, we tore down dead palm fronds and burned their brains in an emptied barbecue. The fire was wild, but we tamed it.
That was our Friday.
Our Saturday was different but the same. Deep in the Osceola National Forest, Cody and I met a few of his college friends, with the sole intention of shooting things with guns. After a stressful week, filled with some hard realizations in my search for a house, I needed guns.
If shooting didn’t prove that I was in control of my surroundings, I didn’t know what would.
As far as actual trigger time went, though, the only weapons I’d had previous experience with were Super Soakers. But I did know one thing: Before even touching a pistol, I’d need to find one of those stubby brown cigars Clint Eastwood chews on all throughout his cowboy movies. That was my top priority. I wasn't about to fire my first hand cannon without the legitimacy of one of those bad boys between my lips.
The idea here was to be dangerous, not irresponsible.
After blasting a few rounds into hay, Robbie pushed an earmuff to the side of his head and looked at me. “Ready to shoot your first gun?” he asked.
I stared at him from under the brim of my cowboy hat, said nothing. Then, I craned my neck to the side, spit into a bucket and moseyed toward him, spurs clanking.
“Just set the targets,” I growled. And he knew what was good for him.
I ignored the surprising weight of the gun in my hand, its piercing reverb through the woods, and flipped a Mexican poncho over my shoulder. I danced my fingers over my holster, yelled “Draw!” and pulled the trigger.
After a fistful of shots, something inside you numbs to the fact that what you’re holding, the thing slicing violence through the forest, is deadly. A few bullets in and you’re just a guy with a gun, carving your name in the silence with bullets.
Even with thunder bursting from the muzzle and the kickback driving deep into your shoulder, it’s funny how quickly the fear dissolves into something that looks and sounds and rattles like power.
“Rack ‘em, boys,” I said, eyes squinted, dirt smeared across my face. “And ain’t ya got nothin’ heavier than this here cap gun?”
With spaghetti-western movie music playing inside my head, I watched wind blow dust between me and the hay bale. Saloon owners slammed closed their shutters. Imaginary cameras drew in, stealing close-up shots of my snarl, the other guy’s worried eyes.
Then, someone brought out a shotgun from inside and we moved toward the docks.
The group of us took turns blasting away, one standing behind the others, hurling clay pigeons out over the lake. I stepped up, traced them in the air and fired, over and over again. With every round, the world seemed smaller and less complicated: see it and squeeze. That was all there was to it.
The more guns I shot, the more shooting guns became an analogy for every difficult decision in my life. See it and squeeze. That simple. No over-thinking. Live fast. Die young. Act first. No consequences.
I loaded the shells, racked them back into the chamber, called for three pigeons and went crazy.
“This backyard ain’t big enough for the both of us!” I screamed — BAM! “You scared my pony, and now you’ll pay!”— BOOM! “Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it!” — POW!
I was alive. I was strong. Explosions resounded from my fingers.
And then, with three gentle kerplunks, gravity pulled each of my pigeons down into the water, fully intact, completely unscathed.
I’d missed every one.
“Just as I suspected,” I said, tracing my finger down the barrel and clearing my throat, Woody Allen style. “The sight’s all crooked. Yeah, it’s all wrong. Bent or something. The hammer … jammed up. No good gat. Rotten. Seen it a million times …”
I walked back up the dock to get a drink and stare quietly at the campfire. In the distance, rounds were being deployed, their echoes racing from treeline to treeline, aimless and beautiful like the wind.
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