Rumble (29 page)

for him. How housewifey is she?

I’d like to skip the bathroom routine,

but man, I totally reek. Even gunpowder

couldn’t mask
this
B.O. I manage

to scrub off the smell, dress, and slip

out the front door without a Dad

confrontation. It’s a crap day, slick

and gray, kind of like my mood.

I’ve got a couple of hours until

Uncle Jessie will open the doors—

it’s an inside shooting kind of day—

so I drive on over to the Koffee Kup

for a kup of koffee and some protein.

I’m sipping my joe, waiting

for my omelette, when who walks

through the door with her parents,

but Lex—A-lex-a. Three syllables.

When she sees me, she says something

to her mom, who nods a curt hello

in my direction as Alexa comes

over to my table.
Hey. How’re you

doing?
Compassion dampens the bell

of her voice. “You know? How?”

Less than thirty-six hours

from breakup to broadcast news.

Her shoulders lift. Fall.
The power

of the Internet, you know? I never

unfriended her, so she still shows up

in my feed. Mostly, she was griping

about her feet. She said you made her

walk home from downtown in heels.

“
I
made her? That’s rich. She was

the one who chose Valentine’s Day

to break up, in public, no less.”

Even to Me

That sounded bitter.

I guess I am, but should I be?

“Sorry. The wound is pretty

raw yet. I’m sure it will scab

over sooner or later, though.”

I hope so. Well, I should

get back to my parents.

Mom’s giving me the “Hello,

remember us?” look.

You know how to get hold

of me if you want to talk.

Just so you know, I may be

happy about it on a purely

selfish level, but I’m sorry

it happened like it did.

Her fingers light softly,

like moths, on my hand.

It’s a gesture of sympathy,

not invitation, and she leaves

everything there, ball solidly

in my court. She is all class.

I like it. I like her.

But I’m not ready to rebound.

My Omelette Arrives

I eat, thinking about girls

and class and love. I always

thought Hayden was classy,

but in retrospect, her proclivity

toward gossip and criticism

tarnishes her halo. Of course,

anger and hurt could very

well be influencing my current

opinion. Now another word

drifts across my line of sight,

like an eye floater against

a sun-startled sky: Secrets.

We are both guilty of keeping

them, but while infidelity—

a single lapse of judgment—

was a breach of faith, the things

Hayden kept from me were

soul shattering. I thought I knew

her, but I didn’t. All I knew

was the person I wanted her to be.

The girl I believed suited me,

despite every fact to the contrary.

Her halo was never gold, or it

couldn’t have rusted so completely.

I Arrive at the Range

A little past nine. There’s only

one other car in the parking lot—

Gus’s old gas-guzzler. I grab

the Glock, head on inside the office,

where Uncle Jessie is talking

earnestly to his veteran pal.

. . . to Eugene to get that barrel

looked at. I’ve got a friend who’s

a great smith. He knows his shit.

I told him give it a thorough once-over.

Kinda strapped for cash right

now,
answers Gus.
My piece-

of-crap car needs an engine

rebuild and my rent just went up.

No worries at all. I’ll cover it

and you can pay me back when

things turn around. Meanwhile,

you can borrow one of my guns.

Well . . . okay. But did you

tell him Fiona was my grandpa’s

gun? He’d better take real good

care of her. She’s one of a kind.

The Two Go Off

In search of a gun for Gus to use.

Pretty sure it won’t have a name,

especially not one like “Fiona.”

Did Gus name that rifle, or did

his grandfather? Was the older

gentleman a little off, too?

I grab some safety glasses and ear

protection, make my way out into

the big cement building that houses

the indoor range. People will show

up eventually, so I choose the farthest

of the eight lanes, preferring to have

only one person shooting beside

me. I spend a half hour wasting

ammunition, and just as I’m reloading,

Gus appears with a pistol similar

to mine. He settles in two stalls

away, but before he loads up,

he turns, signals for me to take

off the earmuffs.
Your uncle

says you’re a crack shot. That so?

I Guess I’m All Right

That’s what I tell him, and

that leads to a shooting match

of sorts. “Of sorts,” because

I’m no match for Gus, at least

not today. Though he claims

to be a much better shot with

a long gun, Uncle Jessie’s Glock

is no match for him either.

Every bullet strikes the heart

of the target in a beautiful

round pattern, while most of

mine fly high or wide on either

side. I’m happy enough just

to hit the paper. Our magazines

empty and we come up for air.

“Wow, I kind of suck today.

Not sure what my problem is.”

He studies me curiously.

What’re you holding inside?

“Wha-what do you mean?”

I thought he was a psycho,

not a psychic. What does he see?

You’re tense as a new grunt on

perimeter patrol. What’s up?

Like it’s any of his business?

Still, I offer, “Guess I’m kind

of pissed at the world right now.”

He smiles.
I know the feeling.

You here blowing off steam?

Not really his business, either.

Still, “Some of that, yeah. That,

and maybe plotting revenge.”

It’s supposed to be funny, but

the not-joke thuds between us.

He thinks a moment, then says,

You know how they say revenge

is best served up cold? I’d say

it’s best not served up at all.

Revenge is a great motivator,

but it doesn’t help achieve

the desired results. I’ve seen

guys lose buddies, then go

off half-cocked, piss fuel

running through their veins.

Things never turned out well.

He’s So Rational

I can hardly believe

it’s the same guy who

was freaking out over

a misfire a few weeks ago.

I could argue that I was

kidding, I’m not out for

revenge, hot or cold.

But I’m finished arguing.

“Thanks, Gus. I’ll keep

that in mind. Maybe next

week we can have a rematch?

I’ll try not to come pissed.”

Easier said than done,

buddy. But sure, always

up for a little competition.

And by the way, when all

else fails, go for a run.

Hard to stay mad when

you’re breathing hard.

Oxygen, that’s the ticket.

I
should
get more exercise.

“I’ll remember that, too.”

The Glock

Needs a good clean, so I go

in search of Uncle Jessie,

who’s got both supplies and

expertise. He sets me up at

a table in the office, demonstrates

how to fieldstrip the gun,

breaking it down into its major

components—barrel, slide, guide

rod, frame, and magazine.
Keep

those safety glasses on, now.

The last thing any living person

needs is to get solvent in their

eyes. You don’t want to end up

looking like me, do you?

He watches me brush the bore

of the barrel, then run patches

through till they come out residue-

free. It’s a long process, and people

start to trickle in. No Dad, though.

By the time the Glock is cleaned,

lubricated, and reassambled,

I’m starting to notice something.

“Hey, Uncle Jessie. Do you feel okay?”

He’s sucking in short, shallow breaths.

Actually, no. My jaw aches, and

I’m having a hard time finding

air. Must be coming down with

a bug or something. But I can’t

leave. Quin’s in Eugene and there

are all these people. . . .

“I’ll take over.” He looks like death,

and I’ve got nothing better to do.

“The counter is pretty straightforward,

and if something unusual comes up,

I’ll give you a call. Go rest. Kick

that bug before it really gets you.”

He hesitates. The Turner men

do not easily relinquish control.

But then he winces, and whatever

caused that makes him decide,
Okay.

Been thinking about an employee.

Why not you? I’ll even pay you.

He gives basic instructions: Most

everyone is a member. Drop-in

costs for those who aren’t. Services

menu. Anything else can wait a few

days.
Chase everyone out by five.

Lock up and bring me the keys.

I Trade Him

The building keys

for my truck key.

“You drive up that hill.

I’ll walk it. Gus says

I need more exercise.”

He manages to wheeze

out a laugh.
Since when

are you listening to

what Gus has to say?

“Since he started

saying stuff that makes

sense. So, go home and

chill. Have a big glass

of NyQuil or something.

I’ve got this covered.”

And I do. It’s a slow

but steady day, customer-

wise. No surprises. No

unanswerable questions.

Nothing I can’t handle.

At Least, Until

Gus comes storming through the door.

Unceremoniously, he tosses Uncle

Jessie’s pistol onto the counter.

“Hey, that’s empty, right?” Last thing

I need is a renegade bullet going

through the wall and hitting a customer.

Shit, yeah,
he spits.
I may be ugly,

but I ain’t stupid. Where’s Jessie?

Now it’s Gus who’s on edge, as

evidenced by his concrete shoulders.

Defusion may be necessary. “Uh,

he’s a little under the weather,

so he went home. Can I help you

with something? I’m ugly
and
stupid,

but I’ll do my best.” The sorry attempt

at humor seems to relax him a little.

Nah. Nothing you can do. I got

a shitty call from my ex is all.

Bitch wants to deny me visitation.