It Can And Will Happen Here

I’m not a gun person. Only held three in my life, fired two. First was a 45 or a 9mm. My girlfriend was house-sitting in Echo Park or Eagle Rock, some neighborhood in LA that was not my familiar Hollywood; suburban and hilly and quiet. The house’s owner kept the pistol in a little carrying case under the bed, and my girlfriend let me play with the weapon after making sure–double and triple-checking–that it was unloaded. I quick-drew, and leapt onto the bed BANG BANG BANG shooting in the air like a John Woo hero, and I said the line about feelin’ lucky. She would not let me fire the gun off in the backyard, even directly into the ground like I promised I would. Smart lady.

My uncle used to live in Riegelsville, Pennsylvania, which you haven’t heard of for good reason; the local drug store sold a tee-shirt that asked “Where the hell is Riegelsville?” The house he bought came with a shotgun. It was that kind of town. One Thanksgiving, we all trooped out there and in between kreplach and turkey took turns firing off the weapon BLAMMO into the empty woods surrounding his property. Heck of a kick, we all agreed.

I tried to date when I moved to Florida. The habit did not take; I miss getting laid by accident. Instead of going to the movies or taking acid in the graveyard, we went to the gun shop/shooting range by the airport. Whole array of deadly shit under the counter available to rent, and I chose the Walther PPK.

“Gimme the James Bond gun,” I told the guy, who didn’t call me a faggot even though I could tell he wanted to.

Lotsa fun in the range. You get giant earmuffs that look like 70’s-style headphones, and protective shades, and a stern lecture from a man with sawdust in the hair of his forearms, even though I saw no woodworking equipment nearby. There was a switch to bring the target closer to you, or–once you had gotten your eye in–farther away. PAMP PAMP PAMP! Louder than the movies. I held the pistol incorrectly, and so the barrel sliced open my thumb’s webbing as it automatically reloaded. I sucked the blood from my hand, and felt oh-so-butch.

And that was it. Never felt a need to have a gun in the house. Haven’t ever used the baseball bat I keep by my bed, so a gun seemed like overkill. Plus, there’s the depression, substance abuse, and impulsive decision-making. I stay up real late, too, and that’s no good. If you don’t need a gun at four a.m., then you shouldn’t have one.

But I think I’m gonna go get me one. Maybe a .38, the snub-nosed revolvers that New York cops used to carry, wrench from the armpits of their checkered sports coats, shoot criminals in the back with. Maybe a .22, which is made for headshots. Bullet’s got enough force to enter the skull, but not leave it. Bounces around in there. It’s like how greenhouses work.

A journey of six million miles starts with a single step. I get awful nervous when the Gentiles start discussing my nationality, you see. My nationality is American, which means I have certain rights.

I’m not getting on that fucking train.