Gun Story #1 (The Crawdad Pit)
I knew the mean, fat kid by reputation.
Mean Fat Kid lived on the other side of town, back where most of the people I knew didn't live. He went to a different school than me in sixth grade, when I lived in Kansas for a year.
Our group of friends didn't know anybody in his group of friends. But I knew about him because I had one friend on the other side of the town, and I'd heard about the mean, fat kid from him.
There was a bit of a no-man's land dividing the part of town where we lived and where the mean, fat kid lived. The no-man's land ran between a couple small lakes on the outskirts of our part of town, and a larger lake not too far from where the mean, fat kid lived.
A drainage canal ran between the two areas. We used to race each other through the drainage canal on bikes; it was like the Death Star scene in Star Wars on BMX bikes.
A woman and her two children were found dead in the drainage canal by some kids. Had we left home a little earlier, it would have been me and my group of friends stumbling on 3/4 of the family (dad beat his family to death with a baseball bat and dumped them in the drainage canal...dad was caught within days). Fortunately for us, kids from Mean Fat Kid Land found the woman and her kids.
Finding dead bodies never appealed to me.
My experience with Mean Fat Kid went like this. A couple friends and me were at the far side of the drainage canal, where there was a waist deep pit of water full of crawdads. Tie a piece of bacon on a string, and you could catch the things all day. We used to dare each other to jump into the crawdad pit. (Legend had it the pit was a well that was at least 20 feet deep, but I always said that was stupid because three or four feet of string was always enough for catching crawdads). Nobody--not even me--accepted that dare.
We were at the crawdad pit, and several tough looking kids came over the hill. Mean Fat Kid was the last one over. He was nothing like our neighborhood tough kid (a tall, skinny tough kid who shaved in 6th grade...granted, he'd failed a couple times). Mean Fat Kid was taller than our neighborhood tough kid, and a hell of a lot sweatier.
Mean Fat Kid had something resting on his shoulder.
It was a .410 bore shotgun.
Granted, that's not a big gun in the world of shotguns, but we definitely weren't talking a pellet gun pumped beyond the recommended numbers of pumps. We were in real gun range with this one.
His friends flanked us, and Mean Fat Kid slowly descended the hill, taking the .410 in his hands when he reached us.
I remember biting my lower lip. Before I had braces, I had a very comical overbite. When I bit my bottom lip when I was nervous, I looked like a bucked tooth goof. One of Mean Fat Kid's friend called me Bucky, and I stopped biting my lip to show them all I didn't have bucked teeth...just an overbite you could put a thumb through (not that I showed them the thumb trick).
Mean Fat Kid took offense to me correcting his friend, and the gun was aimed at me. He stroked the steel barrel and told us his shotgun was loaded. I had an over/under shotgun back home, and I recognized that it was a .410. For a moment, I thought about being a smartass and pointing out that I had a bigger gun than he did, but sometimes I recognize when to shut up.
Mean Fat Kid pointed the .410 at my friends, too. I'm sure we all thought we'd be the next three dead bodies found in the drainage canal; I was sure Mean Fat Kid was going to kill us.
"What do you want?" I said.
"I want to shoot something," Mean Fat Kid said.
"We didn't do anything to you..." I was getting mad.
My friends stayed quiet. I kept talking, doing my best to negotiate a deal that would let us leave without being shot. By the end of my negotiations, I would take one for the group. Nope, not shot by the .410, but I'd jump into the crawdad pit.
At gunpoint.
I learned early on in life that not even cruel bullies like the sound of somebody in true agony. They don't like too much attention brought their way. So when I jumped into the crawdad pit (at gunpoint), I screamed! A
nd screamed!
And screamed!
"OH, GOD!!! THEY'RE EATING MY LEGS!!!! IT HURTS!!! OH, GOD, IT HURTS!!!"
I'd perfected crying on command to get my big sister in trouble when I needed an out, so the fake tears flowed, too!
My screaming freaked out even my friends, who didn't know I was faking things.
"I'M BLEEDING!!! THEY'VE TASTED BLOOD!!! IT HURTS!!! OH, GOD, IT HURTS!!!"
Mean Fat Kid was visibly shaken. I was LOUD and loud meant the possibility of adult attention.
And there he was, outside with a gun I'm sure he didn't have permission to carry around. Not something a kid wants an adult to see.
I kept screaming, faking indescribable pain. I'm sure it only added to the mystique of the crawdad pit being a place on par with the Amazon and piranhas to sixth graders from either side of town. I sold the pain enough that it bothered Mean Fat Kid and his friends. Back over the hill they went, me yelling the entire time.
I didn't stop when they disappeared--I wanted them to think I'd been eaten to the bone; I wanted them to hear my screams all the way to their homes.
When the coast was clear, we ran like hell through the drainage canal, and never went back to the crawdad pit again...
I had a gun pointed at me one other time--and it was no .410. Same town and the same age.
Another time for that one...I think I'm gonna go get some sleep...
Mean Fat Kid lived on the other side of town, back where most of the people I knew didn't live. He went to a different school than me in sixth grade, when I lived in Kansas for a year.
Our group of friends didn't know anybody in his group of friends. But I knew about him because I had one friend on the other side of the town, and I'd heard about the mean, fat kid from him.
There was a bit of a no-man's land dividing the part of town where we lived and where the mean, fat kid lived. The no-man's land ran between a couple small lakes on the outskirts of our part of town, and a larger lake not too far from where the mean, fat kid lived.
A drainage canal ran between the two areas. We used to race each other through the drainage canal on bikes; it was like the Death Star scene in Star Wars on BMX bikes.
A woman and her two children were found dead in the drainage canal by some kids. Had we left home a little earlier, it would have been me and my group of friends stumbling on 3/4 of the family (dad beat his family to death with a baseball bat and dumped them in the drainage canal...dad was caught within days). Fortunately for us, kids from Mean Fat Kid Land found the woman and her kids.
Finding dead bodies never appealed to me.
My experience with Mean Fat Kid went like this. A couple friends and me were at the far side of the drainage canal, where there was a waist deep pit of water full of crawdads. Tie a piece of bacon on a string, and you could catch the things all day. We used to dare each other to jump into the crawdad pit. (Legend had it the pit was a well that was at least 20 feet deep, but I always said that was stupid because three or four feet of string was always enough for catching crawdads). Nobody--not even me--accepted that dare.
We were at the crawdad pit, and several tough looking kids came over the hill. Mean Fat Kid was the last one over. He was nothing like our neighborhood tough kid (a tall, skinny tough kid who shaved in 6th grade...granted, he'd failed a couple times). Mean Fat Kid was taller than our neighborhood tough kid, and a hell of a lot sweatier.
Mean Fat Kid had something resting on his shoulder.
It was a .410 bore shotgun.
Granted, that's not a big gun in the world of shotguns, but we definitely weren't talking a pellet gun pumped beyond the recommended numbers of pumps. We were in real gun range with this one.
His friends flanked us, and Mean Fat Kid slowly descended the hill, taking the .410 in his hands when he reached us.
I remember biting my lower lip. Before I had braces, I had a very comical overbite. When I bit my bottom lip when I was nervous, I looked like a bucked tooth goof. One of Mean Fat Kid's friend called me Bucky, and I stopped biting my lip to show them all I didn't have bucked teeth...just an overbite you could put a thumb through (not that I showed them the thumb trick).
Mean Fat Kid took offense to me correcting his friend, and the gun was aimed at me. He stroked the steel barrel and told us his shotgun was loaded. I had an over/under shotgun back home, and I recognized that it was a .410. For a moment, I thought about being a smartass and pointing out that I had a bigger gun than he did, but sometimes I recognize when to shut up.
Mean Fat Kid pointed the .410 at my friends, too. I'm sure we all thought we'd be the next three dead bodies found in the drainage canal; I was sure Mean Fat Kid was going to kill us.
"What do you want?" I said.
"I want to shoot something," Mean Fat Kid said.
"We didn't do anything to you..." I was getting mad.
My friends stayed quiet. I kept talking, doing my best to negotiate a deal that would let us leave without being shot. By the end of my negotiations, I would take one for the group. Nope, not shot by the .410, but I'd jump into the crawdad pit.
At gunpoint.
I learned early on in life that not even cruel bullies like the sound of somebody in true agony. They don't like too much attention brought their way. So when I jumped into the crawdad pit (at gunpoint), I screamed! A
nd screamed!
And screamed!
"OH, GOD!!! THEY'RE EATING MY LEGS!!!! IT HURTS!!! OH, GOD, IT HURTS!!!"
I'd perfected crying on command to get my big sister in trouble when I needed an out, so the fake tears flowed, too!
My screaming freaked out even my friends, who didn't know I was faking things.
"I'M BLEEDING!!! THEY'VE TASTED BLOOD!!! IT HURTS!!! OH, GOD, IT HURTS!!!"
Mean Fat Kid was visibly shaken. I was LOUD and loud meant the possibility of adult attention.
And there he was, outside with a gun I'm sure he didn't have permission to carry around. Not something a kid wants an adult to see.
I kept screaming, faking indescribable pain. I'm sure it only added to the mystique of the crawdad pit being a place on par with the Amazon and piranhas to sixth graders from either side of town. I sold the pain enough that it bothered Mean Fat Kid and his friends. Back over the hill they went, me yelling the entire time.
I didn't stop when they disappeared--I wanted them to think I'd been eaten to the bone; I wanted them to hear my screams all the way to their homes.
When the coast was clear, we ran like hell through the drainage canal, and never went back to the crawdad pit again...
I had a gun pointed at me one other time--and it was no .410. Same town and the same age.
Another time for that one...I think I'm gonna go get some sleep...