Gun Point

The Mighty Mazda GLC (Good Little Car)

Around 92 or 93 Joe was back in Arkansas on leave from the Navy as a SEAL. Joe didn’t know it but he wouldn’t be returning to active service; Clinton was ‘right sizing’ the military for a peace dividend. Joe and I were leaving our job at the furniture refinishing shop at 8pm. We were excited to leave and were drifting the little Mazda GLC sideways through the gravel parking lot.  

As we came sliding out of the parking lot a 4 door F-250 cut us off and another car blocked us in from behind. Five or six guys got out of the vehicles holding guns with one guy doing the classic 80’s action movie one handed shotgun pump. They told us to freeze. We were well ahead of them; not moving with both of our hands on the dash.

The guy doing the one handed Rambo shotgun pump was the leader. He walked up to the passenger door where I was sitting and stuck the barrel through the window, “What are y’all doing here?”

Me: Leaving work.
Asshole with Gun: Leaving kinda fast ain’t cha?
Me: Heard there was a pack of Rambo movie rejects on the loose. Didn’t want to want to get any of their loser stink on us.
AWG: You think your funny?
Me: Only if you’re smart enough to get it.
AWG: I’m tired of your shit.
Me: Great. We will be on our way. Y’all take care.
AWG: You ain’t going anywhere. We own the shop over there and someone has been breaking in and stealing our plating equipment. Now what are you doing here?
Me: Leaving work.
AWG poking me with the barrel: Where’s the stuff you stole.
Me: Listen mouth breather. We don’t have your shit. And you better be damn sure before you poke me with that street sweeper again.
AWG: We are searching your car.
Me: Knock yourself out.

They shone lights in the back seat and then gathered around the trunk.

Me: Why do they always let the asshole do the talking?
Joe: I was just wondering the same thing.

We sat in silence for a moment.

Me: You didn’t mean that the way I did, did you?
Joe: Nope.
Me: Asshole.
Joe: Yep.

Asshole With Gun comes back to my door: We can’t get the trunk open.
Me: Nope. You sure can’t. Locks broke. You gotta jimmy it.
AWG yells back to his guys behind the car: YOU GOTTA JIMMY IT!
Me: Well I coulda done that.
AWG: What’d you say?
Me: Nothing.

It was an inside joke. Dad: Go get your brother. Me: ADAM COME HERE! Dad with look of disgust: Well I could have done that.

AWG: We can’t get it open.
Me: Fine. I’ll do it.

I grabbed the enormous flat head screw driver we used to open the trunk from between the seats. As I opened the door I was marking their positions mentally. Joe grabbed my forearm and shook his head no. “Be cool man. Just open the trunk. We don’t have their shit.”

I stood and pivoted out of the car quicker than AWG was expecting. He jumped back as he realized I was armed and he was within arms reach. I smiled. He spit.

At the back of the car the yahoos formed a semicircle around me as I popped the trunk and stepped back so they could see NOT A DAMN THING. The trunk was empty.

AWG: So you didn’t rob us yet?
Me: Listen Rambo. We fucking work next door. We are going to be here every day looking at you real hard. How about I stick this screw driver in your noggin and we wait for the Five Oh to show up and sort this whole thing out.

With this everyone points their guns toward the ground. AWG: Well you don’t have to get violent about it.
Me: I’m not the one who showed up with the bad news bears posse.
AWG: Well I guess you fellas can go.
Me: Can we now. Thank you so much. That’s where you work? Right there? I’m sure we will be seeing you real soon.  

Joe: Jake.
Me: WHAT?
Joe: Get in the car.
Me: Fine.
Looking at AWG: You take care now.

Never saw him again while we worked there.

The Great BB Gun War of 1984

Like all great wars it was named after it was over. And like all great wars the name wasn’t entirely true. The Great BB Gun War of 1984 really started in the fall of ‘83. And for all it’s “Greatness” there were only 4 participants. My brother Adam age 10, Chuck age 10, Reuben age 12 and me age 12. Every war has a purpose. Something to be gained. Something to be won. In the end it appeared are only hope was to inflict the maximum amount of casualties while not taking any yourself.

It began when Adam shot me right beneath the butt in the hamstring. It doesn’t seem like it should be possible to put someone down with one BB. But it is. A sniper shot like that will not only put you down but make you scream out in pain for your mommy. And make you do the sideways floor run/shuffle like Curly from the three stooges. On the ground writhing in pain a plan is formed. A plan of revenge. These three laughing hyenas must pay and pay dearly. It was also the first of 283 purple hearts I would award myself over the course of being deployed for a year. War takes a terrible toll on the men involved at the front lines.  

It built up slowly over the fall and winter with each of us taking pot shots at the other from a ‘safe’ distance. By spring it was a full on assault. Safety goggles were acquired and worn. Riding your bike to the pool? Why yes I will wear my googles and 3 T-shirts. Yes I know it’s 95 degrees. I need my gear. One of these BMX mounted dragoons could be behind any tree or house along the way.

Alliances were formed, broken and formed again. Machiavelli would have been ashamed at our lack of principles. One Saturday morning it was every man for himself. An hour later all four powers had  joined forces against a Red Breasted Robin committing genocide against the local fishing worm populace. War changes a man and after the summary execution of Robin none of us were the same or could remain allies. Again it was every man for himself; Chuck was the loser and had to bury Robin while Reuben hummed taps. We would have had a 21 gun salute but dad was stingy with quartermastering  BBs and the amount of times we had to pump the guns dimmed the luster and prestige of the salute.  

One morning Reuben had hidden himself in the huge Sycamore tree in our back yard waiting to ambush Adam and I as we came out the back porch. Fortunately Adam spotted him and we shot him from our second story bedroom window.  He fell out of the tree and ran home gasping he couldn’t breath. I guess he could breath by the time he got home because his mom never called our mom.

The war came to a brutal and decisive close when Adam shot a non-combatant (our little brother Ben, age 4). Ben took a shot right to the butt wearing only tighty whities and cowboy boots. The high stepping circular dance to follow was hilarious. Sadly Adam shot him in the basement less than 5 feet from dad.   It would be generous to call the War Crimes trial that followed a kangaroo court. We were convicted of Crimes against Humanity and of failing to meet the Arming Accord of Christmas ‘82 we were required to sign before receiving our initial  munitions. We were sentenced to the Hot Box (our room) and prison rations (white navy beans) for the remainder of the summer and stripped of our weapons indefinitely.

We had learned a valuable lesson. Don’t be a big dummy right in front of your dad. At least have some plausible deniability.