Punk and Zen (15 page)

As I opened the front door, Trace called from the
hallway above. “Nina!”

“Later, Trace!” I answered, waving behind me. I
refused to even glance back once as I shut the door. I went for my run, hating
my stupidity and the expression on Van’s face when he finally opened his eyes
and saw me. That fucking smirk—like Trace was a toy we were fighting over.
Bastard. Like he even really cared about her.

I ran for miles—I don’t know how far. Dumb, dumb,
dumb. That word beat itself into my head with every other breath I took. In
between, all I could think of was how everybody kept saying I was cute, how
they treated me like some stupid kid with a cool haircut.

I couldn’t talk to anyone. Nico wasn’t around; he had
his own stuff to do for school. Jackie would, at best, ignore me; at the next
level, try to tell me how I’d misunderstood because I was so uninformed; or, at
worst, tell me how I’d brought it on myself or it was my fault anyway.

I didn’t know what Cap would say, but as much as I
liked him, I wasn’t as close to him as I had been to either Trace or Jackie,
and I didn’t think watching porno was the answer to all issues. Forget talking
about anything with my parents. Now that I no longer lived within the range of
tossed items, we were only first being civil to one another. Anything that
reminded them that I was gay wouldn’t be helpful. God, I missed them, though.

No. I needed my own space. The large walk-in closet in
Cap’s bedroom where I kept my guitar was about eight feet by five feet wide,
and, by a design quirk, it not only had a door into his room (which locked from
the inside), but also an egress in the back. If you walked to the end of the
wall, you’d discover an opening about two feet wide; go through it, and you
were in the front closet by the entrance. And it had its own door.

Jackie could, as a “senior” roomie, close the door to
“our” room whenever she wanted, especially if she had company. When that
happened I’d have to wait or get comfortable on the sofa or at Trace’s.

Hmm…maybe that’s why I had previously spent so much
time down at her place. But I didn’t want to do that anymore—the sofa or
Trace’s. And I was tired of always having to go to someone else’s place if I
wanted to spend time with them. So what if I had to walk through the closet? At
least I’d have my own door. Besides, the closet thing was funny if you thought
about it, and I’ve never been one to ignore an inherent irony.

The way I saw it, I really did pay more rent than
Jackie, and Cap wasn’t using that closet for anything except my guitar.
Besides, it also had its own window, with a southeastern exposure. I love the
light in the morning, and Jackie insisted that the room we share be blacked
out, all the time. I was tired of living in a small, dark, cramped space. I
wanted to be able to read at night if I wanted, roll onto my back and smile
back at the clouds in the morning, and not worry about jamming my elbows into
anyone or being jammed in return.

And I wanted my privacy. Not that I had anything to
hide or something like that, it’s just that if I wanted to be alone with my
thoughts or my guitar, I wanted to really be alone. And after what I’d seen
this morning, I wanted, no, I
needed
to be alone.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

I approached Cap about it that day, after I’d come
back, showered, and dressed from my morning run, and he’d finally come out of
his room.

I sat at the kitchen table, which had been shoved up
against the wall, two feet in from the entrance. Well, it wasn’t the world’s
biggest apartment. I had placed my chair so that I could rest my arm on the
table, but I looked out onto the rest of the room, my back against the wall,
drinking a cup of tea (Earl Grey, with milk and sugar, thanks), reading the
hardcover graphic novel
Camelot 3000
for the who-knows-whatever time,
and smoking a cigarette, my first of the day.

I figured I’d let my subconscious compose the words
I’d need while I entertained the forefront of my brain with futuristic sci fi,
King Arthur, his Round Table of knights, including a Tristan who had been
reincarnated as a woman. Besides, it got me away from my thoughts, which were
beyond confusing at the moment.

I was just getting to the part where Tristan runs into
and remembers her true love, Isolde, when Cap stepped out of his bedroom door,
dressed in the usual—the skin he was in.

“Coffee’s made,” I told him as he grunted a feeble
hello and trudged to the counter.

“Thanks.”

He seemed surprised, and I exhaled smoke calmly as I
waited for him to join me at the table, cup in hand.

“No problem.” I slid my cigarette pack and lighter
across the table toward him, and with another grateful nod, he took one and lit
it, inhaling deeply.

“How ya doin’, kid?” he asked me finally.

“I’m all right.” I closed my book with one last look
at the four-color panels, sliding it over by the wall. “How about you?”

“I’m good.” He nodded. “Just hunky-dory.” He took a
deep breath, then ABC downed his coffee as I watched his face change
from sleepy softness to a more alert tension. Not a negative thing, mind you.
Cap was always pretty cheerful in the morning. It’s just that I could see his
brain was starting to engage.

I waited until he put his cup down with a small
exhalation of satisfaction.

“That hit the spot.” He smiled contentedly and dragged
on his cigarette. We sat for a few moments in companionable silence, and I
carefully gathered my words.

“Hey, Cap?” I started. “I’d like to ask you
something.”

Something in my tone must have worried him, because he
instantly looked concerned.

“You can ask me anything, you know that. Everything
okay?” he asked, favoring me with his I’m-a-policeman squint. “Is Trace giving
you shit? Do you need to—”

“No, no, nothing like that,” I raised a hand and
interrupted. Besides, I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. “It’s about the
living arrangements. I’d like to propose a change.” I launched into my request
and explanation while Cap sat silently the whole time, his eyes focused on
mine.

“So,” I concluded, “what do you think? I’m pretty
quiet anyway, you know that, and I’ve never been disrespectful of your things.”

The silence dragged on, so long that I thought he’d
say no, until I saw the tiniest bit of a grin tugging at the corner of his
lips.

“Well, you know, I have to think about it,” he
started, but the effort not to smile was too much, and he burst out laughing.

“You bastard,” I laughed as I wadded up a napkin and
threw it at him, “you had me going for a minute there.”

“I gotcha good!” he chortled, batting away the second
and third missiles I sent his way.

“But…” and his face went somber, “there’s one thing. I
have to move something out of there, and I want you to know where it is. I also
want you to know how to use it.”

I stared a moment, puzzled as I tried to figure out
what he meant. Oh, I got it! Of course, he had a large footlocker in there, and
he was a cop. He could only mean one thing—his gun.

“Oh,” I said. What else was there to say?

“In fact,” Cap continued, “are you free this
afternoon?” He watched me expectantly.

“Um, yeah, I don’t even have to work tonight. I was
just going to catch up on some stuff,” I answered. “What do you have in mind?”

Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of
Cap’s jeep pulling into the lot of the local firing range, a huge one-story
brick building with no windows. Well, I guess those just wouldn’t be necessary,
right?

I found myself in a little cubby staring down a lane
at a tiny target that seemed to be at least a hundred yards away, with others
separated by a distance of several feet on either side.

“Put these on”—he handed me some yellowish-tinged
shooting glasses—“and these”—he handed me a pair of headphones—“but wait until
after you fire your first shot.”

I slipped the glasses on and curled the ends around my
ears, then carefully placed the headphones on the rug-covered ledge in front of
me that stood slightly higher than my waist.

“Okay, now,” Cap began, and I faced him. He held a
matte charcoal pistol in his hands, barrel pointed up, its profile facing me.
It looked like something out of a movie, any movie with a bad guy. In fact, it
looked like a bad-guy sort of weapon, not like the revolvers that officers seem
to have either in their holsters on the street or even on screen. First off, it
looked like it was metal, all metal. And second of all, there was no round
chamber section—you know, like the ones you see cowboys twirl and—never mind.

“This is not my service revolver,” Cap explained.

Well, yeah, I figured that. But I said nothing. All I
could focus on was that real live gun in front of my eyes.

“This…” and he paused, “is a Glock 9 millimeter.
This”—he clicked something and a cartridge fell out of the pistol grip into his
other hand—“is your ammo.” He slid a finger into the cavity and, finding
nothing, eased the top forward and back. “In case there’s a round in there, that’ll
pop it out. You never know,” he cautioned me.

“Okay, you load it like this.” He demonstrated,
pointing the weapon toward the floor and popping the cartridge home. It audibly
snicked. “Then set your safety.” He twisted the gun so I could watch him thumb
it. “You try it.” He handed it to me.

I was very conscious of its cold weight as I somehow
managed to slip the release, the clip gliding out easily into my free hand. I
examined it. It seemed full to me; bullets practically bristled at the very
top.

I faced the range so I wouldn’t accidentally point the
gun at someone. I admit it, I was afraid, and I didn’t know if there just might
somehow be a stray bullet in the chamber.

“This a full clip?” I asked in as casual a tone as I
could muster as I sighted down the hopefully empty gun. I handed it to ABC Page
74him.

“Yeah, it should be,” he answered, examining it
carefully. “But you’re doing the right thing, pointing it away from yourself or
others. Never look down the barrel. There could always be an unfired round in
the chamber.” He put a gentle hand on my shoulder; I guess he could tell I was
scared.

“Here,” he handed me the clip, “now before you put
this in, make sure to see if anything’s in there.”

I checked as I had seen Cap do it, and slid a finger
in. I felt nothing other than the contours inside.

“Okay, now clear it and double-check.”

It took a moment to figure out, but I did it and
safely inspected the chamber. Nothing fell out, so that had to be a good sign,
right? Man, I hoped so.

I glanced over my shoulder. Now what?

Cap answered my unvoiced question. “Load it, Nina.
Load it…and shoot.” He had put on his shooter’s glasses.

I took the clip and pushed it in. When it didn’t
click, I let it slide out about halfway. This time, I slapped it in with my
palm and was rewarded with a solid “snick.” I set the safety.

Staring at the target, I carefully wrapped my right
hand around the handle, and my left cradled it for stability. Both thumbs were
pointed at the target.

“Nice, Nina,” Cap said softly behind me, “that’s the
way. All right now, release the safety.”

I eased my thumb over the safety and carefully curled
a forefinger around the trigger.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Cap whispered behind me.

I swallowed and nodded nervously. Straightening a bit,
I squared my shoulders and sighted the target—a humanoid figure with a gun—as
best I could.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine…just trying to aim,” I responded
through dry lips. In truth? I was stalling. I didn’t think I could do it—aim,
shoot, hit the target. I was caught between scared and incompetent, and neither
of those options felt very good.

“If you’re too scared, you could just watch me,” Cap
offered, voicing my feelings, and while his voice sounded friendly, I was sure
I heard something else—not mockery or derision exactly, but more like a hint of
disappointment, like he’d expected something different ABC from me.

Great, now I wasn’t tough enough either; that was just
the end. Not old enough, not smart enough, not enough of whatever it was Trace
wanted—too cute, too intense, too stupid, too much me and just not right.

“I’m fine,” came curtly out of my mouth. I breathed
out softly, and in that same moment, I found my target line, then promised
myself I wouldn’t blink. I pulled the trigger.

The blast was louder than I’d expected and seemed to
echo in the concrete chamber as I looked around the range. I could feel the
kickback from the shot in my hands, like catching a baseball barehanded, and my
palms stung lightly.

The skin of my knuckles stretched and whitened as I brought
my hands down and rested the pistol on the ledge.

“Nice shooting!” Cap clapped my shoulder. “Let’s take
a look at it.” He edged in next to me and pressed a button I hadn’t noticed
before. A chain creaked its way on a pulley, bringing the target back with it.