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Mr. Completely's post on the National Fast Draw Championships just took me for a ride on the nostalgia coaster.
One day on the way home from school I stopped by the Towson Shopping
Center (now Towsontowne Mall) where the national quick draw champion
was giving a demonstration. At that moment I knew what I wanted
to be in life (I had similar epiphanies about once a month).
Running straight home, I grabbed my birthday money and headed
back to Towson. There was then a little hardware store on York
Road, about two doors down from the Towson Theater. They sold
Crosman Pellet guns there, including a replica Colt single action
six-shooter. It cost, as I remember, around $30, including a can
of .22 pellets, and some gas cartridges.
One of the reasons the movie Christmas Story has developed a
cult following, is its accurate portrayal of life as we knew it.
"You'll shoot your eye out,'' was something every boy in America heard
at least once. My mom was no different. Even though I
started hunting at around age 7, that was in Indiana, on Grampaw's
farm, and she wasn't there to see it. Naturally I had to keep my
acquisition a secret.
 I
didn't have money for the holster, which I think cost almost as much as
the gun, so I fashioned one out of cardboard and electrical tape.
I nearly creamed my jeans when, without reading any of the directions,
I was able to get my first shot off. That would be in my bedroom,
shooting into my closet. But the sumbitch was much louder than I
anticipated. Mom hollered from outside the door, ''What was
that?'' I made something up, and knew to dampen the sound.
Knew to be more careful. I waited until she went back upstairs,
and with the door crack packed with a towel, and my radio volume
turned up, I squeezed out another shot. Bam
Nothing. Bam Bam Bam Bam. Still nothing. Bam Bam Bam
Bam Bam Bam. I was shooting the hell out of a shoe box stuffed
with socks ... sometimes. Mostly I missed, and my backstop was
the drywall. Bam Bam Bam Bam Bam. Bam Load Bam Bam Bam
Bam.Bam.
Before too long I heard my locked door knob being tried. "Open this door!''
Shit.
I ditched the evidence under my pillow, and let my mother
in. ''What are you doing in here? Do you have a
gun?!?'' Of course I lied, but I'm a lousy liar, and she saw
through it. In my best Eddie Haskell impersonation, I pulled the
gun out and boasted, ''Look what I got with my birthday money!
Doesn't it look real? Here, try it.''
Pretend your mom opened your door when you were 15, and found you
humping your cousin. It was like that. I begged her not to tell
my dad. I mean really, really begged. She snitched.
It's hard to know what he really thought, because his reaction to stuff
us kids did was proportionate to how upset she was in the
telling. He was very very pissed just then. He's a lawyer,
so the first thing he asked was, ''Who sold you this?'' I told
him. ''It's against the law to sell guns to a minor! Did
you know that?'' I knew that, because I had to swear to the
salesman that I was 18. ''No. I didn't. It's not a real gun
anyway - it's a pellet gun. Do you want to try it?"
Now came the worst part. He drove me straight to that hardware
store, and in we marched. Dad slammed the box with the gun in it
on the counter, and said - "You sold this to my son, and I want his
money back!'' Did I tell you that I had dropped the gun several
times while practicing my draw? And that there were
several scratches on it, and a cracked plastic grip? The owner
began to protest, but pop used the ''L'' word. Law.
He forked the refund over, including for the pellets and gas cartridges
that were no more. I was freaking mortified, and of course hated
dad's guts more than anything in the world. For at least 12 hours.
Here's the odd thing. Even today I want that gun back. It was great.
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