I don’t joke. Why don’t we find a place? You pretend I’m the target. You could take me out. It would be painless. Drop me where I stand. Do it clean.
What’s gotten into you, Art?
Nothing’s gotten into me. Please. I want done with it. I’ll even help dig the hole.
I don’t have a shovel.
I'll buy you a goddamned shovel.
Not me, Cal says.
A friend would do this for me, Cal. Please. We’ll find a place out in a remote field. I will stand as steady as you need me to stand, then you can unload on me. No hard feelings. You’re the only one I can count on to put me out of my misery.
Art...
He shakes his head and steps back into the lane and he starts shooting semi auto, taking careful aim at the target, hunched over. BLURT! BLURT! BLURT! There’s a mean and sleepless look in his eyes.
Cal, you need sleep, I shout.
You’re telling me! He fires away in rapid succession: BLUUURT! BLUUURT! BLUUUUURT! I haven’t slept in two nights!
I haven’t either.
What’s keeping you up, Art?
He switches back to full auto and leans forward. Then he squeezes the trigger, bullets flying all over the place. BLUUUUUUUUUUURT! It’s a deadly weapon until it isn’t. Then it’s just a toy, and he loves shooting his toy at the paper target.
Seriously, he says, shooting and shouting at the same time. What keeps you up at night, Art?
I need you to understand me, Cal. My wife has been dead for five years and I gave it the scout’s try. Honest!
It’s time to move on, buddy. BLUUUURT!
OK. I’m moving on.
BLURT BLUT BLURT. Asshole, he says under his breath, then he starts again with the Uzi. He shoots for another ten or fifteen seconds until there’s nothing left of the target and when he’s done he lowers his gun and pauses a moment trying to regain the reality of not shooting a machine gun. His eyes are still vibrating. After he adjusts, he smiles.
Then he says, hold on, Art, I wanna give you something. He leaves the gun range for a second and goes back to his car. When he returns he has a gun in a holster. It’s a Glock 26. It looks familiar.
Take a break from your pussy gun, Arthur, and try this on for size.
Haven’t we had this conversation already?
We have.
Then why are we having it again?
It’s a cure. Hair of the dog that bit you, Art. Why don’t you give it a try?
I stare at it again. Is it the same gun? It looks like the same gun. Can it be the same gun? The cops had taken it and put it in evidence. I’d never told them I’d had it. It seemed like it would be more trouble than it was worth to sort it all out, with me having been under investigation and all. But there was a serial number. Had they called the gun show people? Had they tracked down Cal? What had they told him? What had he told them—that it was stolen? I stare at it again…
I’m tired of seeing you shoot that Ruger. Why not give it a try? It’s only a gun. And a nice one at that.
He holds it in his outstretched hands for me to take.
I can’t do it, Cal. Sorry.
Go on. Give it a try. Think of it as medicine. I promise it will help.
Adeleine.
She’s gone, Art. Let her go. It’s time for you to live on your own two legs. Besides, just so you know…because you’re a friend, I customized it for you. For instance, I put on this Pearce extension grip for those big hands of yours. I also put tritium sights on, which was a bitch, but it’ll be great at low light levels. It’s got the seventeen-round magazine clip too. Go ahead, give it a try. I want you to have it, to honor all the years of our friendship. Really, there’s no reason not to. Give it a try. You’ll see. No need to be a big baby about it. Besides, I remember how you loved this gun. How well you shot with it.
He makes a little bow and holds the gun out in both hands and waits for me.
OK, Cal. If you put it that way, what am I gonna do?
The way Cal outfitted it, the gun fits nice in my hand. I push a small button and out comes the fully loaded seventeen-round magazine clip, quick and easy. I check the chamber to make sure there isn’t a round in it. Then I put the clip back in the gun and sight at a target. I like the sights considerably more. They really jump out now. I holster the gun. I stand there a moment looking at what I’m going to shoot. I take a breath. I draw the gun and sight at the target. I try to separate from my emotions, and then I start firing.
You like it, big guy? Cal says.
Perfect for an old man. Thank you, I reply.
It’s about time you hit the target again.
I unload another clip while Cal stands there goading.
How does it feel? Cal says.
Alive again. I haven’t felt this great in years. Thank you for the gun, Cal. It’s easy on the bones.
Yeah, and your accuracy is great. Better than ever.
It’s the tritium sight. It is really nice.
He hands me the clip. I load, drop a round in the chamber, and start firing. It is still amazing how the gun shoots compared to my old Ruger. Also, the stippled grip that Cal outfitted it with helps it sit firmly in my hand despite the fast shooting action.
Don’t you see? It’s a better gun for you than that Ruger.
Yes, I say, banging away at the target.
Look at you go, big guy! I ain’t never seen anything like it. Your accuracy is through the roof! I’m loving what I'm seeing here. You might be a sniper after all!
I might be!
I drop another magazine and then another magazine. I want right then and there to give the Glock the name of my first-born child—the child I had before I had the child that I had: I want to call the gun Luke.
Just think about that fuck Adolph Meyer, Cal says. Think about that fuck, and what he did to you.
And suddenly I saw my wife. And once I saw my wife, I couldn’t unsee her. All the wounds. And then Adolph Meyer. That puff of red.
I’ve had enough.
I put the Glock in its case and thank Cal.
I'm done, I say. I'm done shooting this gun.
I bend down, pick up a spent 9 mm casing, blow on it, then put it in my pocket as a souvenir.
Thank you very much, Cal, I say, for the experience of shooting this gun. I’ve learned something, and now I’m done.
Didn’t you like it?
Yes.
Don’t you want to keep it?
No, you hold on to it.
You sure? You did well with it. I’m super proud of what you showed me here.
And what’s that?
That you know how to shoot.
OK. Now it’s your turn. Go ahead and shoot, Cal.
He steps up to the lane with his Uzi and casts a glance at me like he’s trying to tell me something. Then he goes apeshit with the machine gun, tearing up the target sideways and backwards. It’s a marvel to watch the man shoot. I know what he’s shooting at, too. When he’s through, he swears.
God! Jesus! Holy shit that was fun, he says, setting down the Uzi so it can cool off. I feel a helluva lot better! How about you, Art?
I still want to buy a shovel.
But Cal isn’t even listening: Outstanding, my friend! Outstanding. Nothing like shooting to fix what’s wrong with you. It liberates the soul. How about let’s do it again soon?
How about it? Only next time in a cornfield.