Pistol
Paul Luikart
Midnight, I leave the bar and stop for gas on the way back to my motel. It’s earlier than sometimes, and I am leaving all my new friends behind forever, like I always do—pretty women I’ll never see again and erstwhile brothers. Family, I am loth to say, family. It happens nearly every weekend. And a midnight gas station is never only just for gas. Coffee, chips, Powerade. Candy, cigarettes. I wind up in line with my hands full. When it’s his turn, the man in line in front of me yanks a pistol from his belt.
“Guess what’s up?” he screams.
The kid behind the counter, drop-jawed, pops the register and starts to dig out the money. But Pistol-man vaults the counter, knocks the kid down, and just starts grabbing. Like a mourning dove at a birdfeeder. Coins clink and roll all over. He loses bills, stuffing his pockets that fast. He’s panting, sweating.
“Has it got to be this way?” I recognize the voice as my own.
Pistol-man stops. He looks up. Red eyes and a trembling lip and a Band Aid on his neck, right under his jaw.
“You really want to make tonight your last night on earth?” He points the gun at my face, this big silver model, a revolver. It looks heavy.
“You ever shoot that thing?” I set my things on the floor in a neat little pile and put my hands in my pockets.
“Fuck yes I’ve shot it.” Now, here, all of a sudden, he’s not worrying about the money.
“At what?”
“Plenty of things. People.”
“People? Which people?”
“People who piss me off.”
“Okay. Well.”
He keeps it on me but, in the quiet, he shuffles his feet. The stubble on his chin, around his mouth, on top of his lip is gray flecked. Cheeks pink leather. His eyes are on me like the gun is on me at first, but they flit away, then back. Away, then back. What does he know that I don’t?
“What’s up, really?” I say, “No food in the cupboard and a brood of starving children at home? Or debts? Or drugs?”
“I’m an animal.”
“Since when?”
“Born this way.” But his hand is shaking now. The pistol makes these clicking sounds. Somehow, magically maybe, the gun is getting heavier by the second. The fluorescent lights buzz and we listen along together until distant sirens soak through the plate glass windows, a sound like a sore in my ears.
“Holy fucking shit—” Pistol-man turns to shoot the kid, but as he does, I step and reach and catch the barrel. Just a hard little upward yank, and the gun is in my hand.
“He had to do it. There’s a button back there. It’s just his job,” I say.
Pistol-man sucks in a big lungful of air and lets it go, and does it again, a pair of hard breaths ragged as vulture wings. “I know it.”
“Waste him.” The kid is still down on the floor. “Pop his noggin, mister. What are you waiting for?”
Paul Luikart
Midnight, I leave the bar and stop for gas on the way back to my motel. It’s earlier than sometimes, and I am leaving all my new friends behind forever, like I always do—pretty women I’ll never see again and erstwhile brothers. Family, I am loth to say, family. It happens nearly every weekend. And a midnight gas station is never only just for gas. Coffee, chips, Powerade. Candy, cigarettes. I wind up in line with my hands full. When it’s his turn, the man in line in front of me yanks a pistol from his belt.
“Guess what’s up?” he screams.
The kid behind the counter, drop-jawed, pops the register and starts to dig out the money. But Pistol-man vaults the counter, knocks the kid down, and just starts grabbing. Like a mourning dove at a birdfeeder. Coins clink and roll all over. He loses bills, stuffing his pockets that fast. He’s panting, sweating.
“Has it got to be this way?” I recognize the voice as my own.
Pistol-man stops. He looks up. Red eyes and a trembling lip and a Band Aid on his neck, right under his jaw.
“You really want to make tonight your last night on earth?” He points the gun at my face, this big silver model, a revolver. It looks heavy.
“You ever shoot that thing?” I set my things on the floor in a neat little pile and put my hands in my pockets.
“Fuck yes I’ve shot it.” Now, here, all of a sudden, he’s not worrying about the money.
“At what?”
“Plenty of things. People.”
“People? Which people?”
“People who piss me off.”
“Okay. Well.”
He keeps it on me but, in the quiet, he shuffles his feet. The stubble on his chin, around his mouth, on top of his lip is gray flecked. Cheeks pink leather. His eyes are on me like the gun is on me at first, but they flit away, then back. Away, then back. What does he know that I don’t?
“What’s up, really?” I say, “No food in the cupboard and a brood of starving children at home? Or debts? Or drugs?”
“I’m an animal.”
“Since when?”
“Born this way.” But his hand is shaking now. The pistol makes these clicking sounds. Somehow, magically maybe, the gun is getting heavier by the second. The fluorescent lights buzz and we listen along together until distant sirens soak through the plate glass windows, a sound like a sore in my ears.
“Holy fucking shit—” Pistol-man turns to shoot the kid, but as he does, I step and reach and catch the barrel. Just a hard little upward yank, and the gun is in my hand.
“He had to do it. There’s a button back there. It’s just his job,” I say.
Pistol-man sucks in a big lungful of air and lets it go, and does it again, a pair of hard breaths ragged as vulture wings. “I know it.”
“Waste him.” The kid is still down on the floor. “Pop his noggin, mister. What are you waiting for?”
