The Gun Industry Fed Me and Failed Me: Part 1
It’s a wonder I’m still alive
I’m not going to regurgitate statistics here. You can find plenty from more authoritative sources than I. You can argue over whether those reports are accurate or biased toward or against your particular passion regarding them.
The gun industry paid my bills growing up. A hard day’s work keeping hunters and cops and gun enthusiasts armed to the eyeballs was rewarded with paychecks that covered things like braces and summer trips and a pantry so full we were able to share with others.
I hadn’t realized how many times I’ve stared down the business end of a gun until one Saturday before I let my children loose to explore a nearby canyon I told them what to do in the event that someone starts shooting at them.
“How would YOU know?”
Their puzzled innocence threw me. How do you tell your kids you’ve lived enough lifetimes of threats of gun violence? These sweet boys who are level:expert doing active shooter drills at school, how do you tell them? Which incident do you even tell them about?
No really. How? That said, I hope they never read this. Sorry to break them up and leave you hanging, but as you can imagine barfing each one up takes a toll.
Weapon/Subject:
Rifle/Total Stranger
I spent the night with my cousin, the one I was closest to. He was two years older than me. I always knew he’d be a cop. His middle name is Marshall. I’d go with him anywhere because he took care of me. We stayed up until 3am eating Doritos and sharing a 2 liter bottle of Coke, back before they got fancy with it. We took turns eating, burping, and playing Moonpatrol on his Commodore 64.
I was 10.
His friends stopped by on their way to the canyon and invited him to go. He was saddled with me, so the group had to either take the plus one or go without him. I double-knotted my hand-me-down shoes (from him) so retying them wouldn’t slow me down. This crew wouldn’t wait.
We topped the crest and looked over the craggy boulders below us. At the bottom, a double yellow line split the blacktop as it wound out of view on each side. I hiked down the hill and found a flat rock to rest on. It was hot.
An old car rolled around the bend from the left and slowed to a stop. It was a red four door 1960s car. Not a hot rod. One of those where the owner is proud that everything is original. It didn’t pull over, it just stopped. The engine was off. I thought he might be out of gas.
I stood up and saw my cousin and his friends still at the top of the hill, sitting in tall grass and laughing. From my perch, I could barely see their feet. I turned back to see the man getting out of the car, opening the back door, getting something out…
He laid a rifle across the top of the car, pointed right at me. I was close enough to see that he had glasses, those glasses with the black part on top that were worn in every smiling pedophile’s photo I’d seen because they never used mugshots, just their professional photograph from their business or church directory. The ones I thought only priests had, like they were issued by God himself when they got the call.
This is what I was thinking while my legs were trying to remember how to move, one in front of the other.
“Run! No! Don’t get up! He’s got a gun!”
The group of boys rolled around to see what I was blathering about just as the crack of the rifle cut through the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Three more shots would ring out. Then silence.
This was the first time. I had no idea there would be more.
