The Wikiness

“Hey, Ricky, wanna come to my garage at lunch? We could toss some of my dad’s shotgun shells.” 

My dad stored boxes of 12 gauge shells near his unsecured shotgun in the basement. Through experimentation, I discovered early on that it is possible to dislodge the primer, or firing pin of the shell from its brass base by throwing it down onto the concrete of an alley. If you hit the brass just right, the pin will pop out, and the shell’s black powder can then be poured out in lines that you can set aflame with a match. 

Far surpassing the brightness and rapidity of burning firecracker powder, the shell’s gunpowder burn is intense, a satisfying reward for the effort it takes to dislodge the pin. Plenty of “oohs” and “aahs” emerge from my friends’ mouths. None of them has access to shotgun shells, but I do! That access provides me a monopoly that makes me feel special among my peers.

Ricky and I sit cross legged across from each other and toss shells down on the cracked concrete, looking for that elusive angle that will open the magic powder.

At some point, Ricky or I throw a shell down that happens to land directly on a small pebble. It hits the firing pin, and instantly the 12 gauge shell explodes, launching a spray of lethal lead pellets. 

By some very fortunate chance, the shell is pointed directly up when it explodes. Were it pointed at the slightest angle in Ricky’s or my direction, one of our heads would certainly be severely damaged. We might be dead.

Thankfully though, the shot flies up to the rafters and ricochets down on us with such force that a few of the pellets penetrate my right thigh, drawing blood.

Ricky and I are entirely stunned, and for a moment stare at each other in wide-eyed amazement. Then, feeling suddenly criminal, Ricky gets up and runs out of the garage.

All at once, two boys have been shoved into the realm of adult violence, and it feels too real.

I stagger back to my house and examine my thigh. It’s not bleeding badly or hurting very much, so I bandage it, change my bloody pants, and go back to school for the afternoon session.

This near-miss sours me of my shotgun fascination and shell games. It gives me an aversion for firearms that persists, removing any interest in owning one when I come of age.

In retrospect, I believe my fascination with guns was to some extent a hoped-for avenue to closer companionship with dad. However, it was another dead end. It seemed he could meet me on our common ground of football,  baseball, or hockey, but never hunting or guns. 

Ironically, my disaffection for blood sport may have been something my father and I shared, because outside of one or two excursions to his pheasant-hunting Marine buddy near Danville, I don’t believe dad ever went hunting again. Perhaps his time among exploding lead in Korea had soured him on guns, too.