The Gun Industry Fed Me and Failed Me: Part 4
Curfew
Wondering how you got here? Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Weapon/Subject:
Revolver/My Mother
I slid the house key from its hiding spot atop the plastic holster affixed to the aluminum siding by the power company where they once rolled up and deposited our hand-delivered monthly statements. It had fallen out of favor, its intended use to reduce postage fees reevaluated and determined more trouble than its worth.
I kicked off my shoes and checked the clock. 10:29. I made curfew, in before the witching hours where terrible things happened in the dark of night. Before terrible people could inflict their murderous shenanigans upon my person, before the gremlins appeared to rape and pillage their way through the night into the early morning hours.
I was safe.
I heard the comfortable see-sawing of my parent’s alternate snores, their bedroom door open into the hallway, blocking the path to my upstairs bedroom. I tiptoed into the bathroom and opened up the faucet’s hot water handle, washcloth absorbing the warmth.
I scrubbed at my teenage skin until the makeup was gone, red and raw. I squeezed out a blob of toothpaste across the bristles, and went to work polishing. I stared at the tube, wondering if I could ask for my own toothpaste.
Topol — it said right on the tube — was for smokers.
I thought back to the first horse I remembered us having. His name was Topol. Did they really name a horse after a toothpaste? Would Crest or Aim have been considered?
I rinsed the foamy globs down the drain and finished by swiping an alcohol soaked cotton ball over my face. It stung, but my mother assured me this was the best way to keep my pimples under control.
I quietly slipped to her side of the bed, their room awash in an orange glow from the two small lights on their electric blanket controls. Dad’s was still on ten, hers set between one and two.
“Mom. I’m home.”
Waking her up was part of the deal. She needed to see the clock with her own eyes, not trusting that I’d be home on time.
She didn’t wake. I leaned closer.
“Mom. Mom. Wake up.”
She startled. In an instant, her hand slipped under her pillow. The glow of the blanket control glinted off the barrel as she glanced me in the mouth. I pulled my head off to the side and swatted at the gun, knocking it to the floor.
She’d become more paranoid that we would fall victim to intruders hell bent on stealing what she’d worked hard for at the factory. The factory with orders dependent on other paranoid people and military contracts. My father, by contrast, showed little interest in firearms. His paycheck was driven by community needs, usually by plowing a road or addressing the never ending need for gravel around our county’s roads. Even his interest in hunting was just a show to fit in with other fellas. The gun cabinet in the house was more display than a safe, its glass paneled door never locked, just in case we misplaced the key.
“What the hell, mom?”
As the metallic taste of blood seeped from my lip, I felt my incisor. It was chipped. I thought back to the other times she’d accidentally hurt me. The round scar on my arm from her cigarette’s hot cherry as she hovered over me holding the cooler lid as I helped pack for a trip. The near-miss with the riding lawn mower, my lungs pushing the screams out to her ears just before she backed over me, her stopping just before the blade snatched off my little sausage toes.
They were accidents. She’d never hurt me on purpose. And even if she didn’t say she was sorry, I knew she felt bad.
Her fog cleared. She fumbled for her glasses on the nightstand and read the clock.
Oh. Oh it’s you. You scared me.
She grabbed my face in her hands, holding it to hers as though she needed a closer look.
Have you been drinking? I smell alcohol.
She switched on the light. Her eyes searched mine for signs of impairment. She wouldn’t relent until I brought her the dirty cotton ball as proof of sobriety.
I was 16.
I kicked the handle of the revolver and felt it slide under the bed, at least far enough from her reach to keep her sleepy hands off it. I spent the rest of the night staring into the eyes of circle knots scattered on the cedar paneling on my ceiling, cutting my tongue on the jagged edge of my incisor, knowing it wasn’t as bad as it felt, wondering if I’d be safer with the gremlins outside my window.
