Idiot With a Gun
In a quiet gun shop with no customers, there isn’t much to do. You can clean the guns on the rental wall, but who wants to do that? You could browse the isles and see what's new, but you’ve done it a million times. Eventually, you end up sitting mindlessly while waiting for the jingle of the front door.
I chose to ask questions, as many as I could think of. Some were out of necessity as I knew nothing about firearms when I got this job, while others were out of curiosity. Working with people who are veterans, firemen, and retired cops opened an opportunity to learn the authentic side of those jobs, not just what movies glamorized.
One question was on my mind for a while, but I wasn’t sure if it was a question that should be asked. I would look at him, thinking today is the day! Only to awkwardly make eye contact and stumbled on my words in search of an excuse for staring. One day,I finally got the nerve and blurted it out.
“Is it wrong to ask if you’ve ever shot somebody?” He slowly turned his head towards me, unamused as always. My heart skipped a beat. Is this something you shouldn’t ask old retired cops?
“Wrong?” He repeats. “No, it’s not wrong; and no, I haven’t.” He turned back to his phone. For a second, I debated asking my follow-up question. Well, what’s he gonna do? Shoot me?
“You said you’ve pulled your gun on people many times, right?” A question I had asked a few weeks ago. He gives up on scrolling through his phone to give me his full attention. He knew me well enough at that point to conclude I wasn’t done with this discussion. Something filled his eyes. Annoyance?
“Yes, countless times.” He walked to the other end of the counter. Annoyance. Did I strike a nerve? If he had any left. The 90s rock radio and distant BANGS of people on the range filled the silence between us. He picked up a rubber band from underneath the counter and started toying with it. In another brief moment of courageous curiosity, I opened my mouth.
“Have you ever been shot?” He thought for a second, then smiled.
“I’ve shot myself.” He said matter-of-factly. I usually have something to say, a follow-up question maybe; but I lost my words.
“What do you mean?” I managed to ask. He turned and pointed a finger gun at the wall to our right.
“There was a metal sheet about as far as that wall. I was shooting it and one of the bullets came back,” With his finger, he drew the path of the bullet straight into his rib. “and hit me right here. Well, when I looked down I saw red.”
I was flabbergasted. Just a few days before, someone told me that ricochets don’t work like how they are portrayed in movies. Almost nothing with firearms works like they portray in movies. What he described to me sounded like a Hollywood stunt meant to scare people about the possibility of an idiot with a handgun.
“Did you go to the hospital?” I asked. Surely he did.
“No, my rib stopped it, so I squeezed it out like a pimple.” He laughed. He didn’t do that often, and I questioned his sanity for doing it then, but any attempt at humor before this moment fell flat with him. Anytime he would laugh was at the expense of my idiocy or stupid mistakes. He can laugh all he wants at those; at least I’m not the idiot who shot himself.
