Punk and Zen

by JD Glass

  The sound snapped me out of my shock, and I shook my head as I closed the door.

  “Get the fuck off me,” I heard her tell him as I walked to the exit, and I heard the sound of hurried feet as I jogged down the steps. I had to get my run in.

  As I opened the front door, Trace called from the hallway above. “Nina!”

  “Later, Trace!” I answered, waving behind me. I refused to even glance back once as I shut the door. I went for my run, hating my stupidity and the expression on Van’s face when he finally opened his eyes and saw me. That fucking smirk—like Trace was a toy we were fighting over. Bastard. Like he even really cared about her.

  I ran for miles—I don’t know how far. Dumb, dumb, dumb. That word beat itself into my head with every other breath I took. In between, all I could think of was how everybody kept saying I was cute, how they treated me like some stupid kid with a cool haircut.

  I couldn’t talk to anyone. Nico wasn’t around; he had his own stuff to do for school. Jackie would, at best, ignore me; at the next level, try to tell me how I’d misunderstood because I was so uninformed; or, at worst, tell me how I’d brought it on myself or it was my fault anyway.

  I didn’t know what Cap would say, but as much as I liked him, I wasn’t as close to him as I had been to either Trace or Jackie, and I didn’t think watching porno was the answer to all issues. Forget talking about anything with my parents. Now that I no longer lived within the range of tossed items, we were only first being civil to one another. Anything that reminded them that I was gay wouldn’t be helpful. God, I missed them, though.

  No. I needed my own space. The large walk-in closet in Cap’s bedroom where I kept my guitar was about eight feet by five feet wide, and, by a design quirk, it not only had a door into his room (which locked from the inside), but also an egress in the back. If you walked to the end of the wall, you’d discover an opening about two feet wide; go through it, and you were in the front closet by the entrance. And it had its own door.

  Jackie could, as a “senior” roomie, close the door to “our” room whenever she wanted, especially if she had company. When that happened I’d have to wait or get comfortable on the sofa or at Trace’s.

  Hmm…maybe that’s why I had previously spent so much time down at her place. But I didn’t want to do that anymore—the sofa or Trace’s. And I was tired of always having to go to someone else’s place if I wanted to spend time with them. So what if I had to walk through the closet? At least I’d have my own door. Besides, the closet thing was funny if you thought about it, and I’ve never been one to ignore an inherent irony.

  The way I saw it, I really did pay more rent than Jackie, and Cap wasn’t using that closet for anything except my guitar. Besides, it also had its own window, with a southeastern exposure. I love the light in the morning, and Jackie insisted that the room we share be blacked out, all the time. I was tired of living in a small, dark, cramped space. I wanted to be able to read at night if I wanted, roll onto my back and smile back at the clouds in the morning, and not worry about jamming my elbows into anyone or being jammed in return.

  And I wanted my privacy. Not that I had anything to hide or something like that, it’s just that if I wanted to be alone with my thoughts or my guitar, I wanted to really be alone. And after what I’d seen this morning, I wanted, no, I needed to be alone.

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  I approached Cap about it that day, after I’d come back, showered, and dressed from my morning run, and he’d finally come out of his room.

  I sat at the kitchen table, which had been shoved up against the wall, two feet in from the entrance. Well, it wasn’t the world’s biggest apartment. I had placed my chair so that I could rest my arm on the table, but I looked out onto the rest of the room, my back against the wall, drinking a cup of tea (Earl Grey, with milk and sugar, thanks), reading the hardcover graphic novel Camelot 3000 for the who-knows-whatever time, and smoking a cigarette, my first of the day.

  I figured I’d let my subconscious compose the words I’d need while I entertained the forefront of my brain with futuristic sci fi, King Arthur, his Round Table of knights, including a Tristan who had been reincarnated as a woman. Besides, it got me away from my thoughts, which were beyond confusing at the moment.

  I was just getting to the part where Tristan runs into and remembers her true love, Isolde, when Cap stepped out of his bedroom door, dressed in the usual—the skin he was in.

  “Coffee’s made,” I told him as he grunted a feeble hello and trudged to the counter.

  “Thanks.”

  He seemed surprised, and I exhaled smoke calmly as I waited for him to join me at the table, cup in hand.

  “No problem.” I slid my cigarette pack and lighter across the table toward him, and with another grateful nod, he took one and lit it, inhaling deeply.

  “How ya doin’, kid?” he asked me finally.

  “I’m all right.” I closed my book with one last look at the four-color panels, sliding it over by the wall. “How about you?”

  “I’m good.” He nodded. “Just hunky-dory.” He took a deep breath, then ABC downed his coffee as I watched his face change from sleepy softness to a more alert tension. Not a negative thing, mind you. Cap was always pretty cheerful in the morning. It’s just that I could see his brain was starting to engage.

  I waited until he put his cup down with a small exhalation of satisfaction.

  “That hit the spot.” He smiled contentedly and dragged on his cigarette. We sat for a few moments in companionable silence, and I carefully gathered my words.

  “Hey, Cap?” I started. “I’d like to ask you something.”

  Something in my tone must have worried him, because he instantly looked concerned.

  “You can ask me anything, you know that. Everything okay?” he asked, favoring me with his I’m-a-policeman squint. “Is Trace giving you shit? Do you need to—”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” I raised a hand and interrupted. Besides, I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. “It’s about the living arrangements. I’d like to propose a change.” I launched into my request and explanation while Cap sat silently the whole time, his eyes focused on mine.

  “So,” I concluded, “what do you think? I’m pretty quiet anyway, you know that, and I’ve never been disrespectful of your things.”

  The silence dragged on, so long that I thought he’d say no, until I saw the tiniest bit of a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

  “Well, you know, I have to think about it,” he started, but the effort not to smile was too much, and he burst out laughing.

  “You bastard,” I laughed as I wadded up a napkin and threw it at him, “you had me going for a minute there.”

  “I gotcha good!” he chortled, batting away the second and third missiles I sent his way.

  “But…” and his face went somber, “there’s one thing. I have to move something out of there, and I want you to know where it is. I also want you to know how to use it.”

  I stared a moment, puzzled as I tried to figure out what he meant. Oh, I got it! Of course, he had a large footlocker in there, and he was a cop. He could only mean one thing—his gun.

  “Oh,” I said. What else was there to say?

  “In fact,” Cap continued, “are you free this afternoon?” He watched me expectantly.

  “Um, yeah, I don’t even have to work tonight. I was just going to catch up on some stuff,” I answered. “What do you have in mind?”

  Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of Cap’s jeep pulling into the lot of the local firing range, a huge one-story brick building with no windows. Well, I guess those just wouldn’t be necessary, right?

  I found myself in a little cubby staring down a lane at a tiny target that seemed to be at least a hundred yards away, with others separated by a distance of several feet on either side.

  “Put these on”—he handed me some yellowish-tinged shooting glasses—“and these”—he handed me a pair
of headphones—“but wait until after you fire your first shot.”

  I slipped the glasses on and curled the ends around my ears, then carefully placed the headphones on the rug-covered ledge in front of me that stood slightly higher than my waist.

  “Okay, now,” Cap began, and I faced him. He held a matte charcoal pistol in his hands, barrel pointed up, its profile facing me. It looked like something out of a movie, any movie with a bad guy. In fact, it looked like a bad-guy sort of weapon, not like the revolvers that officers seem to have either in their holsters on the street or even on screen. First off, it looked like it was metal, all metal. And second of all, there was no round chamber section—you know, like the ones you see cowboys twirl and—never mind.

  “This is not my service revolver,” Cap explained.

  Well, yeah, I figured that. But I said nothing. All I could focus on was that real live gun in front of my eyes.

  “This…” and he paused, “is a Glock 9 millimeter. This”—he clicked something and a cartridge fell out of the pistol grip into his other hand—“is your ammo.” He slid a finger into the cavity and, finding nothing, eased the top forward and back. “In case there’s a round in there, that’ll pop it out. You never know,” he cautioned me.

  “Okay, you load it like this.” He demonstrated, pointing the weapon toward the floor and popping the cartridge home. It audibly snicked. “Then set your safety.” He twisted the gun so I could watch him thumb it. “You try it.” He handed it to me.

  I was very conscious of its cold weight as I somehow managed to slip the release, the clip gliding out easily into my free hand. I examined it. It seemed full to me; bullets practically bristled at the very top.

  I faced the range so I wouldn’t accidentally point the gun at someone. I admit it, I was afraid, and I didn’t know if there just might somehow be a stray bullet in the chamber.

  “This a full clip?” I asked in as casual a tone as I could muster as I sighted down the hopefully empty gun. I handed it to ABC Page 74him.

  “Yeah, it should be,” he answered, examining it carefully. “But you’re doing the right thing, pointing it away from yourself or others. Never look down the barrel. There could always be an unfired round in the chamber.” He put a gentle hand on my shoulder; I guess he could tell I was scared.

  “Here,” he handed me the clip, “now before you put this in, make sure to see if anything’s in there.”

  I checked as I had seen Cap do it, and slid a finger in. I felt nothing other than the contours inside.

  “Okay, now clear it and double-check.”

  It took a moment to figure out, but I did it and safely inspected the chamber. Nothing fell out, so that had to be a good sign, right? Man, I hoped so.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Now what?

  Cap answered my unvoiced question. “Load it, Nina. Load it…and shoot.” He had put on his shooter’s glasses.

  I took the clip and pushed it in. When it didn’t click, I let it slide out about halfway. This time, I slapped it in with my palm and was rewarded with a solid “snick.” I set the safety.

  Staring at the target, I carefully wrapped my right hand around the handle, and my left cradled it for stability. Both thumbs were pointed at the target.

  “Nice, Nina,” Cap said softly behind me, “that’s the way. All right now, release the safety.”

  I eased my thumb over the safety and carefully curled a forefinger around the trigger.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Cap whispered behind me.

  I swallowed and nodded nervously. Straightening a bit, I squared my shoulders and sighted the target—a humanoid figure with a gun—as best I could.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine…just trying to aim,” I responded through dry lips. In truth? I was stalling. I didn’t think I could do it—aim, shoot, hit the target. I was caught between scared and incompetent, and neither of those options felt very good.

  “If you’re too scared, you could just watch me,” Cap offered, voicing my feelings, and while his voice sounded friendly, I was sure I heard something else—not mockery or derision exactly, but more like a hint of disappointment, like he’d expected something different ABC from me.

  Great, now I wasn’t tough enough either; that was just the end. Not old enough, not smart enough, not enough of whatever it was Trace wanted—too cute, too intense, too stupid, too much me and just not right.

  “I’m fine,” came curtly out of my mouth. I breathed out softly, and in that same moment, I found my target line, then promised myself I wouldn’t blink. I pulled the trigger.

  The blast was louder than I’d expected and seemed to echo in the concrete chamber as I looked around the range. I could feel the kickback from the shot in my hands, like catching a baseball barehanded, and my palms stung lightly.

  The skin of my knuckles stretched and whitened as I brought my hands down and rested the pistol on the ledge.

  “Nice shooting!” Cap clapped my shoulder. “Let’s take a look at it.” He edged in next to me and pressed a button I hadn’t noticed before. A chain creaked its way on a pulley, bringing the target back with it.

  The paper fluttered and grew larger as it came closer, and I could see the results for myself—a neat hole with slight scorch marks around the edges went through what had been the drawn shirt pocket of the figure.

  “Man, oh, man, straight for the heart—great shot! You’re a natural, Nina. Let’s try that again.”

  Cap pressed the button, and as the chain wound its way back, another target appeared at the end.

  I could smell something in the air, I didn’t know what, and my ears still rang. Oh, my God, I had a loaded gun in my hands and was afraid to let go, to drop it, to move in any direction and accidentally hurt someone.

  That possibility kept repeating itself in my head. I could decide at any second to turn that gun on Cap, on myself, at anyone, and that would be that. I could kill someone, including myself, thanks to this thing in my hands. How could someone not be overwhelmed by that possibility? There was, there is, no other purpose for a gun. I couldn’t use it to dig, or to plant, or to build. All it did was what it was made to do—make holes in things, and maim or even kill living ones.

  I couldn’t find anything redeeming in that fact, and I couldn’t put it down because I couldn’t think or see any place that would be safe.

  “Put the earphones on this time,” Cap reminded me.

  I cocked the safety with my thumb and pointed the gun at the floor, then looked at him. “Um, which hand should I use?” I asked a touch more acidly than I’d meant to, “the one that steadies it or the one that pulls the trigger?”

  “Give me that,” he laughed, “and put those on.” He indicated with his chin toward the ledge where my phones sat.

  I let my left hand relax off the grip, but still careful to point it down, I handed him the gun and noticed as I did that he wore both a pair of green-tinted shooting glasses and bright orange earphones.

  My rental ones were blue, and they felt heavy as I slid them on, not at all like my DJ headphones.

  “I’m gonna take a shot, okay?” Cap asked, his voice muffled and distant through the protective ear gear as he squeezed beside me to aim down the range.

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead,” I answered as loudly as I could so he could hear me, and nodded as well, just in case he didn’t. I backed out of his way as he leaned his elbows on the ledge and took aim.

  “You so do not shoot like a girl,” he chortled, thumbing the safety and taking position at the ledge. I watched over his shoulder as the sound of a distant firecracker went off and light flared for a moment from the end of the pistol.

  I tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked him with real curiosity and a touch of annoyance.

  “I’ll show you.” He grinned, then quickly set himself up to pop off another two rounds.

  He pushed the recall button, and as the target swung its wa
y back to us, I could see three holes: one in the same place mine had been, another in the belly, and the third dead center of the pants zipper.

  “You see,” he explained, pointing, “girls tend to go for the gut and the groin, even when they’re not looking at the target.”

  He pressed another button that would set up a new target, then glanced at me with a slitted, sidewise look.

  “Always remember that, Nina. Girls will always go for the gut or the groin.”

  “Hey!” I protested, “that’s not fair. I’m a girl, and that’s not what I—”

  “You’re a woman, Nina,” he interrupted me, waving a hand, the other one holding the gun securely on the ledge and pointed toward the range, “a young one, but still a woman. And one with an edge, at that. Even more, you’re an adult—something rare.”

  He looked at me very seriously, and I arched an eyebrow in return.

  I didn’t feel very adult or womanly—edgy, maybe, but I figured that was due to hormones. I mean, I didn’t think I knew what I was doing or had some sort of internal sense of, I don’t know, certainty maybe, or direction, something—something I assumed that adults had, but I didn’t.

  Cap must have understood the expression on my face. “Keep shooting straight for the heart, Nina, and you’ll be fine.”

  We were silent, Cap letting his words sink in, and I quietly absorbing them. Then Cap grinned. “Come on, it’s your turn. Let’s work on your technique and make sure you know what you’re doing.”

  We spent a whole lot more time getting me comfortable with a gun, and between that and the whole morning thing, I had a lot to think about on the drive back to the apartment.

  I so wished I didn’t feel like I was always trying to catch up to everything and everyone around me, I thought as I watched the streets fly by from the window.

  “Trace,” Cap said quietly as he drove, “she’s not it for you, right?”

  Great. Awesome. Straight to the one thing I didn’t want to talk about. Forget shooting for the heart—this went straight for the gut.

  Pain bubbled up in my chest, so big, so hard, it squeezed me airless, and even worse, it hurt, throbbing in time with my heartbeat, because deep down, I knew what, I knew who was it for me and it was never going to happen.