I can still smell the gun cleaning oil from the Saturday afternoons my step dad cleaned his rifles. He cleared off the living room coffee table, spread out a towel and all disassembled rifle parts. He sat on the couch, legs spread wide in cutoff jean shorts and usually no shirt.
Cigarette smoke and his music filled the room.
He was fast, thorough, and efficient.
The brush plunger went in and out of the barrel. The rags applied the oil to all the dark metal pieces and wood handle.
It was strange to see something so violent be so unmanifested. And unnerving to see how effectively this walking-temper had command over it.
Once I found a gun hidden in a closet. But the rest were visible on gun racks in his bedroom and the living room.
Also visible in the a living room ceiling tile was a hole. It had burnt and scored edges. It was about a inch in diameter, big enough to snugly fit a shotgun shell. Which is what made the hole.
It didn’t seem strange. It was familiar like the curtains and other things in the room.
Apparently, I was in the room playing on the floor when it accidentally went off. But I don’t remember it.
Hearing gunshots was normal. I heard target practicing in the back yard, shooting a stray animal, or shooting into the air to shut up our barking dogs.
Our neighbors shot guns. The father was a thick, muscular, bearded man, who had literally worked on the railroads. He scared me. His two sons were both older and manlier than me.
I think my step dad looked up to him because while shooting, he would adopt their southern accent.
When they moved back to Alabama we took one of our two family vacations to visit. Down there, my step dad was in heaven. All us men fished from early morning until afternoon. We came back and cleaned the fish. While the women fried the fish, we shot guns.
The barn was across the dirt road. It had a vague wooden fence that kept unseen farm animals who had worn all the surrounding barn yard to red dirt. We set up cans on stumps and dirt piles.
They took turns shooting their powerful and loud ride. It energized all of them and intimidated me.
The neighbor, my step dad, and the oldest son shot, then they handed it to me.
Your turn.
The rifle scared me but I knew it was my duty to do this.
I raised the heavy rifle to my shoulder.
Now it’s got a kick so hold it right to your shoulder.
It’s hard for a ten year old to hold steady a long, heavy gun. It wavered and the target veered back and forth nearing the gun’s sights.
Remember, don’t pull the trigger, squeeze it.
I knew better than to ask what the fuck the difference between pulling and squeezing was.
When the target was finally as close as it was going to get I pulled the trigger.
Click. Nothing happened.
Did you take the safety off?
Another paradox.
Goddamn it, what did I tell you? Keep the safety on, aim until the target is lined up, then turn the safety off and fire.
This made no sense to me. I could barely hold the gun steady with two hands, using one to take off the safety meant completely re-aiming.
That’s like hiking five miles into the woods and setting up a tent. Then disassembling it, packing it up, hiking out of the woods, hiking back into the woods, setting up then tent, taking off the safety, and only then sleeping in it.
I took the safety off and fired.
It kicked hard and my shoulder ached. It was so loud. The gunpowder smell, the Alabama heat, and their eyes were all on me.
I tried to hand it back.
That’s all you want to shoot, boy?
Yeah.
Why?
…I don’t know.
Why? Did it hurt your shoulder?
This kind of question was a trap. “Yes” might require me to shoot several more times until I learn to not let my shoulder be hurt.
So I gave my most neutral shrug because being apathetic was much better than being a pussy.
I’ll take his turn!
The other son gladly took the gun and hit the target on his second shot. My step dad looked at me with disdain.
If we were alone together he would have lecture or yelled. Or with rough hands put the gun back in my arms, jammed the butt into my shoulder, jerked my hands where they belonged with proper grip, push my head toward the sight. And if the barrel hit my cheek bone he’d never notice.
When we were alone he did not contain his temper.
Recently my uncle told me what happened that day we were alone together in the living room.
Jeff confessed to me that you were doing that pissed him off. He was yelling at you with the shotgun in his hand. He lost his temper and shot off the gun.
I guess he took off the safety and squeezed the trigger.