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Authors: Jack Badelaire
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and some friendly quiet.
Finally I turned to Jamie. "How long ago did you build this place?"
"Right around the time you were born. I don't think it had been finished when Michael called to tell me you had been delivered."
"I like it, it's simple and comfortable."
"That's all I want, and all I need."
"We pile a lot of unnecessary crap onto our plates these days, don't we?"
"Truer words, kid, were never spoken."
We sat for a few more minutes in quiet reverie, finishing our beers. Finally Jamie looked down at his empty bottle, over at mine, and stood up.
"You've never used a handgun before, have you?"
"I've never even held a gun, never mind used one."
"Wait here a minute."
Jamie set his bottle on the kitchen counter and walked off into another room. I heard him some distance away, moving things around. A quiet current began to hum through me, like the sound of a refrigerator running in the background that you noticed only when it turned on or off.
Jamie emerged a few minutes later with a cardboard shoebox in his hands. "Bring your beer bottle. Actually, throw yours and mine in the bottle bin next to the fridge, and bring 'em all with you."
I did as instructed and followed Jamie as he went out the front door. I saw him put the shoebox in the back of his Jeep. We drove for about five minutes, and then turned down a gravel road, heading away from the lake and off into the wilderness. I noticed there weren't any cabins or signs of habitation along the road, and after another two or three minutes of bumpy driving, we pulled into a horseshoe-shaped pit of earth and gravel.
"Although nothing would have come of us going into the backyard and shooting there, the sound would carry a little too well over the water. Easier to come back here so I don't annoy my neighbors."
We got out of the car. I went for the bin in the back seat, while Jamie picked up the shoebox. He dragged a bullet-riddled stump over and put it in the middle of the gravel pit. I could see this was a popular place for people to come and target shoot; there were spent casings all over the ground, in all shapes and sizes.
"Put three or four bottles on the stump," Jamie instructed.
When I walked back to the hood of the car, Jamie was taking a handgun out of the shoebox. It was a revolver of blued steel, not particularly large, with polished wooden grips.
"Watch what I do," he said.
Jamie pressed a button on the side and hinged out the cylinder. From inside the box he plucked six bullets, and one by one, slipped them into the cylinder, closing the revolver back up once it was loaded. He held the pistol up in front of me so I could see it clearly.
"Smith and Wesson Model Ten, thirty-eight special, four inch barrel, blued finish, walnut grips. Six shots, one hundred fifty-eight grain round-nosed lead bullets, muzzle velocity eight hundred feet per second, muzzle energy two hundred foot-pounds."
I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.
Jamie gave me a commanding stare. "There are three rules you will abide by. First, this is a loaded weapon, even when it is unloaded - you get me?"
I nodded. "Always treat it as if it is loaded, yes."
"Second, only point this weapon at something you're willing to see destroyed."
"Only point at something I'm willing to destroy, got it."
"Third, your finger doesn't make contact with the trigger until you are committed to firing your weapon."
"Don't touch the trigger until I'm ready to fire."
Jamie held the revolver out to me butt-first. "This weapon might not be all that impressive, but you can snuff out a life in a heartbeat with one trigger pull. Just remember that every time you pick it up, and act accordingly."
I took the gun from his hand. I was surprised at how heavy it was; it felt like it weighed a couple of pounds. I carefully kept my finger held away from the trigger, and made sure the barrel was always pointed at the ground.
"Didn't think it'd be that heavy," I said.
"It's all wood and steel. More modern
Finally I turned to Jamie. "How long ago did you build this place?"
"Right around the time you were born. I don't think it had been finished when Michael called to tell me you had been delivered."
"I like it, it's simple and comfortable."
"That's all I want, and all I need."
"We pile a lot of unnecessary crap onto our plates these days, don't we?"
"Truer words, kid, were never spoken."
We sat for a few more minutes in quiet reverie, finishing our beers. Finally Jamie looked down at his empty bottle, over at mine, and stood up.
"You've never used a handgun before, have you?"
"I've never even held a gun, never mind used one."
"Wait here a minute."
Jamie set his bottle on the kitchen counter and walked off into another room. I heard him some distance away, moving things around. A quiet current began to hum through me, like the sound of a refrigerator running in the background that you noticed only when it turned on or off.
Jamie emerged a few minutes later with a cardboard shoebox in his hands. "Bring your beer bottle. Actually, throw yours and mine in the bottle bin next to the fridge, and bring 'em all with you."
I did as instructed and followed Jamie as he went out the front door. I saw him put the shoebox in the back of his Jeep. We drove for about five minutes, and then turned down a gravel road, heading away from the lake and off into the wilderness. I noticed there weren't any cabins or signs of habitation along the road, and after another two or three minutes of bumpy driving, we pulled into a horseshoe-shaped pit of earth and gravel.
"Although nothing would have come of us going into the backyard and shooting there, the sound would carry a little too well over the water. Easier to come back here so I don't annoy my neighbors."
We got out of the car. I went for the bin in the back seat, while Jamie picked up the shoebox. He dragged a bullet-riddled stump over and put it in the middle of the gravel pit. I could see this was a popular place for people to come and target shoot; there were spent casings all over the ground, in all shapes and sizes.
"Put three or four bottles on the stump," Jamie instructed.
When I walked back to the hood of the car, Jamie was taking a handgun out of the shoebox. It was a revolver of blued steel, not particularly large, with polished wooden grips.
"Watch what I do," he said.
Jamie pressed a button on the side and hinged out the cylinder. From inside the box he plucked six bullets, and one by one, slipped them into the cylinder, closing the revolver back up once it was loaded. He held the pistol up in front of me so I could see it clearly.
"Smith and Wesson Model Ten, thirty-eight special, four inch barrel, blued finish, walnut grips. Six shots, one hundred fifty-eight grain round-nosed lead bullets, muzzle velocity eight hundred feet per second, muzzle energy two hundred foot-pounds."
I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.
Jamie gave me a commanding stare. "There are three rules you will abide by. First, this is a loaded weapon, even when it is unloaded - you get me?"
I nodded. "Always treat it as if it is loaded, yes."
"Second, only point this weapon at something you're willing to see destroyed."
"Only point at something I'm willing to destroy, got it."
"Third, your finger doesn't make contact with the trigger until you are committed to firing your weapon."
"Don't touch the trigger until I'm ready to fire."
Jamie held the revolver out to me butt-first. "This weapon might not be all that impressive, but you can snuff out a life in a heartbeat with one trigger pull. Just remember that every time you pick it up, and act accordingly."
I took the gun from his hand. I was surprised at how heavy it was; it felt like it weighed a couple of pounds. I carefully kept my finger held away from the trigger, and made sure the barrel was always pointed at the ground.
"Didn't think it'd be that heavy," I said.
"It's all wood and steel. More modern
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