Contributor Week - Day Two
A Gun Story
by Tracy A. Phillips
Note from author to Tom Eubanks: "This piece is a true story from my lifestyle of 25 years ago...you can present it as biography or fiction. It is true, from memory, as close as I remember."
Tracy A. Phillips' Bio:
Tracy A. Phillips resides in Southeast Kansas and is a married father of two and grandfather of two. A pedigreed ancestor of Ozark Hillbillies and Oklahoma Sooners, he was born in 1960. Growing up in a small town in the 60′s and 70′s, he was a gifted trumpet player. However, when the 60′s culture reached small-town Kansas in the 70′s, he dropped out of college, majored in screwing up and generally disappointing his mother. He enjoys writing when inspired, and always writes for and about common, everyday people.
by Tracy A. Phillips
Note from author to Tom Eubanks: "This piece is a true story from my lifestyle of 25 years ago...you can present it as biography or fiction. It is true, from memory, as close as I remember."
It's the weekend, and the usual two-day card game is going on in my living room. Spades, I think. I'm just smoking whatever weed the players brought. Last night's jam session is still set up in the dining room, double bass drum kit and all. There's a half dozen regulars here already and no doubt the session will carry on again tonight until the cops shut it down. Damn, I gotta get a girlfriend, an out-of-town job or something...anything.
This crowd I'm running with is using me up fast.
The phone rings, someone yells to me. "Hey dude, it's Don." I yell back, "Tell him to come on over, we've already got a pony keg on ice."
This crowd I'm running with is using me up fast.
The phone rings, someone yells to me. "Hey dude, it's Don." I yell back, "Tell him to come on over, we've already got a pony keg on ice."
"Dude, just come talk to him! He says he ain't ready to start drinkin' yet today. He needs to talk to you!"
All right goddamnit, just a second. "Don, what's up? You don't want to drink? Are you Okay? What, you want me to come over to talk? You are scaring me--I'll be there in a minute. Pour me a bourbon on ice."
I go to Don's apartment, a third story apartment where all you can see is a door after climbing two stories of stairs. You can also see whose car is outside before you take the time to answer the door. He likes it that way, because he's financing his college degree by selling ounces of weed. When I get up to the second floor landing, he's waiting there looking worried.
"You didn't bring anybody with you did you?" Don asks.
"Hell, no, I'm so tired of the weekends at my place, I'm glad to get a break," I say. "What's up?"
"You're not going to believe this, man. Last night I quit answering the door and the phone so I could drop some acid."
"Yeah, so what? You do that every week at least once--hey where's the booze?"
"Well, this time my car was in the shop, so it looked like I really wasn't here, and somebody tried to break in the place. I wish I had called you last night when this was happening, but I figured you were drunk at that hour. The neighbor came home really late and I think he must have scared them off without knowing it."
Don pulls out a half gallon of Jim Beam and a tray of ice. He puts three or four cubes into the glass and pushes it across the counter to me. He already knows I drink it on ice. "So what do you need to talk to me for? Shit, last time I tried selling weed, it wasn't a month till they robbed my house while I was at work. I'm no help."
"Well," Don says, "this is my livelihood. I may be a bit spooked, but I'm not quitting." He reaches under the counter and pulls a handgun out of a drawer and slowly lays it in front of me. I choke on the first slug of whiskey for the day.
"Shit, Don. What the fuck are you doing with that thing? You wanna get hurt or sumpin'? Where you get that?"
"Well, after the L S Crazy wore off, I went to the pawn shop and bought it. It's a .380 semi-automatic, and small enough to fit in my pocket. That's about all I know about it. I need you to teach me about guns. This one first." I paused, sighed, picked it up and checked it out. At least it's empty. "This is not just about dope money," he tells me. "My little sister stays here with me sometimes, too." I try to tell him that if he cares about her, he'll get rid of the gun and get a regular job. He ain't buying what I'm sellin'. "Listen," he says, "I already got parents if I want a lecture. What I need is somebody to teach me how to shoot without hurting myself."
"Okay," I tell him. "You know you drink too much to be playing with this thing don't you? I'll teach you how to shoot this piece if you promise me it stays put when you're drunk. You gotta promise me. I'll never live this down if you fuck up and shoot yourself." Don's face gets red.
"Now quit fucking lecturing," he says "I'm going to learn how to shoot the thing, with or without you."
"Okay, let's go. I know a good place to learn. We can go out to Bottoms Bridge."
Six months later, I'm lying on the couch alone. The usual weekend hangover. The band is gone out of town to some gig and the card game apparently followed them. Thank god, a weekend without sharing my booze and cigarettes. The dog is out front barking at somebody. I go look and it's Don. He looks like shit and comes right in. He pulls his hands out of his jacket pockets and there's half of a set of handcuffs on each hand. His hands are bruised and swollen.
I go to Don's apartment, a third story apartment where all you can see is a door after climbing two stories of stairs. You can also see whose car is outside before you take the time to answer the door. He likes it that way, because he's financing his college degree by selling ounces of weed. When I get up to the second floor landing, he's waiting there looking worried.
"You didn't bring anybody with you did you?" Don asks.
"Hell, no, I'm so tired of the weekends at my place, I'm glad to get a break," I say. "What's up?"
"You're not going to believe this, man. Last night I quit answering the door and the phone so I could drop some acid."
"Yeah, so what? You do that every week at least once--hey where's the booze?"
"Well, this time my car was in the shop, so it looked like I really wasn't here, and somebody tried to break in the place. I wish I had called you last night when this was happening, but I figured you were drunk at that hour. The neighbor came home really late and I think he must have scared them off without knowing it."
Don pulls out a half gallon of Jim Beam and a tray of ice. He puts three or four cubes into the glass and pushes it across the counter to me. He already knows I drink it on ice. "So what do you need to talk to me for? Shit, last time I tried selling weed, it wasn't a month till they robbed my house while I was at work. I'm no help."
"Well," Don says, "this is my livelihood. I may be a bit spooked, but I'm not quitting." He reaches under the counter and pulls a handgun out of a drawer and slowly lays it in front of me. I choke on the first slug of whiskey for the day.
"Shit, Don. What the fuck are you doing with that thing? You wanna get hurt or sumpin'? Where you get that?"
"Well, after the L S Crazy wore off, I went to the pawn shop and bought it. It's a .380 semi-automatic, and small enough to fit in my pocket. That's about all I know about it. I need you to teach me about guns. This one first." I paused, sighed, picked it up and checked it out. At least it's empty. "This is not just about dope money," he tells me. "My little sister stays here with me sometimes, too." I try to tell him that if he cares about her, he'll get rid of the gun and get a regular job. He ain't buying what I'm sellin'. "Listen," he says, "I already got parents if I want a lecture. What I need is somebody to teach me how to shoot without hurting myself."
"Okay," I tell him. "You know you drink too much to be playing with this thing don't you? I'll teach you how to shoot this piece if you promise me it stays put when you're drunk. You gotta promise me. I'll never live this down if you fuck up and shoot yourself." Don's face gets red.
"Now quit fucking lecturing," he says "I'm going to learn how to shoot the thing, with or without you."
"Okay, let's go. I know a good place to learn. We can go out to Bottoms Bridge."
Six months later, I'm lying on the couch alone. The usual weekend hangover. The band is gone out of town to some gig and the card game apparently followed them. Thank god, a weekend without sharing my booze and cigarettes. The dog is out front barking at somebody. I go look and it's Don. He looks like shit and comes right in. He pulls his hands out of his jacket pockets and there's half of a set of handcuffs on each hand. His hands are bruised and swollen.
"Jesus, Don. What the hell is this?"
"Just get these fucking things off me, would you. They're too tight and my hands hurt."
I get out a hacksaw and start working on the cuffs. It takes a while and he tells me the story. He had a dope deal set up and the guy did not want to meet him in town. Of all the places he chooses, the same goddamned bridge where he learned to shoot. He takes a friend with him, just in case. Bad move Don. Guess I didn't teach you anything. It seems that Don and his friend show up at the appointed place, a few thousand dollars on hand. Nobody there. Don has his .380 handy, thinking he has things covered. They wait a few minutes, then get out and grab a beer out of the cooler. They are standing there bullshitting when two guys come out of the weeds on each side of the road with guns drawn. The two guys happen to match in every aspect: matching ski-masks, matching guns, everything. Thank god, Don has no time to think about the gun in his pocket. The guys grab them both, march them onto the bridge, handcuff them and put them face-down on the bridge for a quick search. They find the handgun and start laughing. They throw it off into a field after emptying it between their two captives' heads at close range, just for effect I guess. The guys pull their own guns out and continue this game until they are told where the cash is. Once the cash is secured, they handcuff Don to a tree, face-first. They kidnap Don's friend in the car that the two showed up in. Taped his eyes and mouth, shoved him in the back seat and drove into the boonies, apparently to retrieve their own car.
That's about all the story I got when somebody knocked at the door. I just about jumped out of my fucking skin. I already had my own guns loaded after getting half the story. It was Don's friend. He knew me from hanging out at Don's place, and, like Don, did not know where else to go. Great, now I need to find another hacksaw blade, this one is shot. No pun intended. Don had managed to break the chain between the cuffs, and retrieved his gun. He walked probably 10 miles to get to my house. Rick had been left in the car, and drove here with his cuffs intact.
I get out a hacksaw and start working on the cuffs. It takes a while and he tells me the story. He had a dope deal set up and the guy did not want to meet him in town. Of all the places he chooses, the same goddamned bridge where he learned to shoot. He takes a friend with him, just in case. Bad move Don. Guess I didn't teach you anything. It seems that Don and his friend show up at the appointed place, a few thousand dollars on hand. Nobody there. Don has his .380 handy, thinking he has things covered. They wait a few minutes, then get out and grab a beer out of the cooler. They are standing there bullshitting when two guys come out of the weeds on each side of the road with guns drawn. The two guys happen to match in every aspect: matching ski-masks, matching guns, everything. Thank god, Don has no time to think about the gun in his pocket. The guys grab them both, march them onto the bridge, handcuff them and put them face-down on the bridge for a quick search. They find the handgun and start laughing. They throw it off into a field after emptying it between their two captives' heads at close range, just for effect I guess. The guys pull their own guns out and continue this game until they are told where the cash is. Once the cash is secured, they handcuff Don to a tree, face-first. They kidnap Don's friend in the car that the two showed up in. Taped his eyes and mouth, shoved him in the back seat and drove into the boonies, apparently to retrieve their own car.
That's about all the story I got when somebody knocked at the door. I just about jumped out of my fucking skin. I already had my own guns loaded after getting half the story. It was Don's friend. He knew me from hanging out at Don's place, and, like Don, did not know where else to go. Great, now I need to find another hacksaw blade, this one is shot. No pun intended. Don had managed to break the chain between the cuffs, and retrieved his gun. He walked probably 10 miles to get to my house. Rick had been left in the car, and drove here with his cuffs intact.
We got the cuffs cut off. A few shots of Beam and a joint later, they were ready to go. Don already knew what was up. He had been set-up by the same bastards who tried to break in. We all three went to his apartment. Just as he thought, while they were being kidnapped, robbed and terrorized, another crew was in town busting down his door and ransacking the place.
Don had enough. He packed up what college hours he had and moved 30 miles away to continue at a state college. No more dealing weed. Just going to be a regular college guy, drink a lot, chase some girls. Maybe even mess around and get a degree.
I went there and visited a few times. He seemed to be doing well. He was missing some school to drink, but I didn't know anybody that did not drink like that. He did pick up a nasty habit of buying up soon-to-be-banned chemicals. These chemicals are the kind that were not in themselves illegal. However, when mixed, they became psychedelic drugs--ecstasy and variations of that type. I tried a few, but I never did like hallucinogens. I kind of lost interest in going to see him for awhile after that.
Don had enough. He packed up what college hours he had and moved 30 miles away to continue at a state college. No more dealing weed. Just going to be a regular college guy, drink a lot, chase some girls. Maybe even mess around and get a degree.
I went there and visited a few times. He seemed to be doing well. He was missing some school to drink, but I didn't know anybody that did not drink like that. He did pick up a nasty habit of buying up soon-to-be-banned chemicals. These chemicals are the kind that were not in themselves illegal. However, when mixed, they became psychedelic drugs--ecstasy and variations of that type. I tried a few, but I never did like hallucinogens. I kind of lost interest in going to see him for awhile after that.
It was probably a year later, when I was at my folk's house reading the paper. Front page: College Student Attempts Suicide.
Shit, I knew it right away. This was Don. Had to be. The correct age, town, everything. I called a couple of people and confirmed. It was. I spoke to his parents and sister. He had shot himself in the head with the .380. I felt lower than low.
Don called me from the hospital as soon as he was able. He really needed to talk to me, could I come to the city to see him? Very important, he says. Jesus, here we go again. I gotta quit running with this crowd. I do declare they are using me up. When I get to the hospital, first thing he wants to know is if there's any cops outside. Seems his reason for shooting himself has to do with some stolen-check fraud that him and some other damned fool got involved in.
What's my part in this? He gives me the key to the apartment, and I go collect up all the stolen shit and get rid of it, ahead of any further police investigation. When I get to his place, the carpet in the front room is stained with blood, the bathtub looks the same, with some splatters on the wall. I collect the loot and do the dirty deeds.
Months later, Don is back in the same apartment. Actually going to finish school. I stop in to check on him, we talk about all of this at length. He's tried to get the blood stains out. They are still there. He recounts that night the best he can remember.
He was depressed at the time he shot himself, go figure. Said his love-life sucked, then this crap with the check scam. He just thought it was his time to check out.
In his words, "I got awfully drunk to get the courage. Finally I decided I had better try to keep this clean, so I went and stood in the shower. I put the gun to my right temple and fired. My head rocked, but I did not even fall over. All I could think was that I'm even a goddamned failure at suicide. I threw the gun because blood started running into my eyes. My nose was running bloody. I stood there waiting for death and started getting cold. Of all things, the cold started to bother me. I turned on the hot water and laid down in it. When I finally decided this wasn't working, I was pissed off. I had to find the gun and try again, but could not see well enough to find it. I finally called 911 and laid on the living room floor, where the police found me, still conscious."
WOW. Not everyday one of your buddies has a story like this to tell you.
"Any regrets?" I ask him.
"Yeah," he says. "I was wearing my brand new Levis when I shot myself. They are over there in that paper sack. They smell pretty bad, guess I should throw them out."
"Well Jesus H Christ," I tell him, "it ain't like ya' was plannin' on coming back to do laundry."
I still see Rick around town sometimes. He tries to avoid talking to me. Don lives in town also. He's lost a lot of his hearing and most of his sight. He gets some disability and stays in his apartment, drinking vodka and mixing god-who-knows-what carefully measured concoctions.
I don't see him anymore.
Shit, I knew it right away. This was Don. Had to be. The correct age, town, everything. I called a couple of people and confirmed. It was. I spoke to his parents and sister. He had shot himself in the head with the .380. I felt lower than low.
Don called me from the hospital as soon as he was able. He really needed to talk to me, could I come to the city to see him? Very important, he says. Jesus, here we go again. I gotta quit running with this crowd. I do declare they are using me up. When I get to the hospital, first thing he wants to know is if there's any cops outside. Seems his reason for shooting himself has to do with some stolen-check fraud that him and some other damned fool got involved in.
What's my part in this? He gives me the key to the apartment, and I go collect up all the stolen shit and get rid of it, ahead of any further police investigation. When I get to his place, the carpet in the front room is stained with blood, the bathtub looks the same, with some splatters on the wall. I collect the loot and do the dirty deeds.
Months later, Don is back in the same apartment. Actually going to finish school. I stop in to check on him, we talk about all of this at length. He's tried to get the blood stains out. They are still there. He recounts that night the best he can remember.
He was depressed at the time he shot himself, go figure. Said his love-life sucked, then this crap with the check scam. He just thought it was his time to check out.
In his words, "I got awfully drunk to get the courage. Finally I decided I had better try to keep this clean, so I went and stood in the shower. I put the gun to my right temple and fired. My head rocked, but I did not even fall over. All I could think was that I'm even a goddamned failure at suicide. I threw the gun because blood started running into my eyes. My nose was running bloody. I stood there waiting for death and started getting cold. Of all things, the cold started to bother me. I turned on the hot water and laid down in it. When I finally decided this wasn't working, I was pissed off. I had to find the gun and try again, but could not see well enough to find it. I finally called 911 and laid on the living room floor, where the police found me, still conscious."
WOW. Not everyday one of your buddies has a story like this to tell you.
"Any regrets?" I ask him.
"Yeah," he says. "I was wearing my brand new Levis when I shot myself. They are over there in that paper sack. They smell pretty bad, guess I should throw them out."
"Well Jesus H Christ," I tell him, "it ain't like ya' was plannin' on coming back to do laundry."
I still see Rick around town sometimes. He tries to avoid talking to me. Don lives in town also. He's lost a lot of his hearing and most of his sight. He gets some disability and stays in his apartment, drinking vodka and mixing god-who-knows-what carefully measured concoctions.
I don't see him anymore.
Tracy A. Phillips' Bio:
Tracy A. Phillips resides in Southeast Kansas and is a married father of two and grandfather of two. A pedigreed ancestor of Ozark Hillbillies and Oklahoma Sooners, he was born in 1960. Growing up in a small town in the 60′s and 70′s, he was a gifted trumpet player. However, when the 60′s culture reached small-town Kansas in the 70′s, he dropped out of college, majored in screwing up and generally disappointing his mother. He enjoys writing when inspired, and always writes for and about common, everyday people.
Posted by Tom Eubanks at 1/4/2011 6:29 PM 
Categories: Short Non-Fiction, Contributor
Tags: Blast from the Past Guest Writer Getting Personal Storytelling
Categories: Short Non-Fiction, Contributor
Tags: Blast from the Past Guest Writer Getting Personal Storytelling
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