Sometimes the wind is so gentle, you don’t even notice it. Like when you have a window open, and you see the curtains wave.
It was like that for me, on a Monday, when I figured out that I was a man. I didn’t set out that day to become a man. It just kind of happened.
The postman came and delivered our mail, and I got my copy of Popular Mechanics that I had been expecting. I ran to my room, closed my door, and started to devour the text. This was back in the 60s, when metal meant metal. Circuits were esoteric, and not commonplace.
It was a very warm summer day. The sky was as blue as I’d ever witnessed, and the few clouds that dared to appear were but whispers. I was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans, as it was so warm, and I had not a care in the world.
The funny thing about the weather in West Texas? It can change in an instant.
As the dust blew in, I closed my window, and watched as the wind carried the tumbleweeds into the next yard. Better their’s than ours.
I watched as my father drove onto the driveway. He wasn’t elegant in his approach. I could tell he’d been drinking. I mean, it was Monday, so by noon, he was probably quite lit.
I lowered the window, and turned on my TV. It was an old, black and white thing. Resting on its wire stand, it was something out of a 50s science fiction movie. Still, it rendered images reasonably well. However, it was old, and a hazard. It would shock the piss out of you if you touched its metallic siding in bare feet. It had this funky antenna that had to be adjusted for the best reception.
That early afternoon, I got hungry, and went to the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. My father was sitting at the table, nursing a bourbon and coke. He barely noticed me as I put the mayonnaise back in the fridge. I walked back to my room, and closed the door behind me.
It was getting dark outside, as the storm clouds rolled in. I took bites off of my sandwich, and pondered whether to pick Door Number 1, Number 2, or Number 3. For some strange reason, my TV was getting really good reception at that point.
I was fairly lost in my own world at that moment, but then I heard my mother yelling. I had to put down my sandwich. I could never eat when she yelled.
I heard, through the walls, my father berate her for being a slut. She hollered back that he was an impotent drunkard. I heard the slaps. I felt the blows.
I don’t know what was different about that day, but instead of turning up the volume on my TV and ignoring the situation, I walked out of my room, went to my father’s gun cabinet, and picked up his little .380 automatic pistol. Just my size.
I walked into the living room, where he was hovering over my mother, and I warned him: “Stop it now.”
He was not amused. He turned his attention to me, and then queried, “What are you gonna do, boy?”
I stated, quite simply, that I would shoot him.
He did not believe me. His error.
He lunged toward me, and I carefully placed a bullet in his left thigh. It went clean through, as I did not aim for the bone. He collapsed readily, and my mother went to his aid, as she always did.
She was screaming, “Do you realize what you just did? Do you have any idea what you are doing?”
I casually replied, “I know exactly what I am doing. Do you know what you are doing?”
I went back to my room, and placed the pistol on top of the TV, turned up the volume, and chose Door Number 3. I always had good luck with Door 3. Always.
I continued to work on my sandwich, and my mother opened the door, just a crack, and asked me, “What am I supposed to tell the people in the emergency room?”
I recommended, “Tell them that he was cleaning his gun, and it went off.”
She replied, “Good story.”
They left, and I picked up the remnants of my sandwich, and changed the channel.
The rain began to fall, so I opened the window.
I love the smell of rain. There’s something cleansing about the smell of fresh rain.
