Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

I need to warn Zimmy .

“I think it’s good we’re talking.”

After the call, I couldn’t settle down. I rolled to the right, then the left. Punched my pillows. Tank leapt onto the bed and started to knead the covers. I reached over and buried my fingers in his fur, just at the scruff of his neck. I thought about Zimmy, escaping his old life, building a new one in his own personal Garden of Eden. Thought about a guy in a sharp suit. Thought about where Barbara was headed. What she’d left behind.

I sat up. Thumbed a text to Mike. Pressed send. It went through easily in the clear night air. I flopped under the covers one more time as my query sped through the ether.

Time to locate Barbara’s religious retreat. Maybe stir up a serpent or two.

I felt my four-legged alarm clock before I saw him. Tank’s loofah tongue was doing its best to exfoliate my left cheek.

“Okay. Okay. I’m up!” I said, pushing him off my chest.

Sheets of light streamed in the kitchen window. It was midmorning already, and nobody but my Persian knew or cared if I was upright. I stepped onto the deck in my boxers and tipped my face toward the warmth. I could learn to love this self-employment gig, maybe a little too much.

To counter the self-congratulating sluggard in me, I spent the next several hours on maintenance. Barbara’s fear was one thing, Zimmy’s story another. But invite the two together, and the situation resonated with threat, radiating warnings outward like the overtones of a struck gong. I had better be prepared.

I began with my body. Four days off was three days too many. I stayed on the deck for a 20-minute routine of standing and sitting postures-a yogic version of the LAPD-recommended light aerobics and stretching. I went back inside and pulled on sweats and running shoes. I paused to dump a can of cat food in Tank’s bowl before I left. He gave me a look, the one that says: This is the best you can do? Then he lowered his head, barely deigning to eat.

I stepped into the dappled driveway and started with an easy jog down Topanga Canyon Drive. I veered left onto Entrada Road and picked up the pace, running the mile or so to the Trippet Ranch entrance into the park. I was nowhere near Barbara’s campsite, but I felt a prick of sadness nonetheless.

I did a weave and sprint up Musch Trail until I had a good sweat going. Then I stepped off the trail and did 30 reps each of push-ups, curls, leg lifts, and lunges. Used a tree branch for another 30 pull-ups. There weren’t any wooden horses to vault, or chain-link fences to climb, so I turned around and ran home. I calculated time and distance as I jogged into my driveway. Seven-minute miles. Good. I might not be a cop anymore, but I still more than met the physical requirements to qualify. I planned to keep it that way.

I addressed my inner health with 20 minutes of mindful awareness on the meditation cushion. Mostly I was aware of endorphins. Fine by me. Sometimes running works better than sitting.

Food next-an avocado, mesclun, and sprouts salad with cherry tomatoes and toasted pine nuts. Iced green tea. I was Mr. Virtuous today.

I had one more job to do. I went to the bedroom closet, unlocked my gun safe, and pulled out three cases, one wooden, one aluminum, one of sturdy gray nylon. I took all three outside and set them on the deck. I opened the wooden case first-my gun-cleaning kit-and set up my station with the care of a field surgeon. I pulled out the gun mat and spread it out on the deck like a tablecloth. Then I lined up oil, solvent, cotton swabs, rags, toothbrush, and a polymer pick with a hex-shaped shaft. I added two chamber-cleaning bores, one for my duty gun, a standard 9-mm Glock, and the other for my passion piece, a custom-made Wilson Combat.38 Super. Supergrade. Super reliable. Super cool.

I was glad my brothers in Dharamshala couldn’t see me. They’d find it hard to understand my fascination with guns. I find it hard enough to understand myself.

Three things in my life present an ongoing challenge to the practice of nonattachment: my cat, my car, and my classic Supergrade.38. I live in fear of losing them, even as I know that someday, one way or another, I will. But it’s like my body-I may not control the expiration date, but I can certainly influence the quality of the shelf life.

To that end, I set about cleaning the two guns patiently and with intention, another meditation of sorts. The urban warrior’s, maybe.

I started with the Wilson. I hadn’t had an opportunity to dry-fire the little beauty, much less take it to the range, for over a month. I ejected the magazine and emptied the chamber, double-checking that the magazine well was clear. As I fieldstripped the weapon, I paused to feather my thumb across the checkered mainspring housing and slide. As always, I marveled at the precision and sheer beauty of each component, from the cocobolo wood grip to the throated and polished five-inch barrel.

There are eight elite master gunsmiths in the United States. Four of them work at Wilson Combat. Superior craftsmanship is what drew me to their custom-built firearms-that, and the fact that they are family owned and operated. When you don’t have family to speak of yourself, mom-and-pop organizations hold a special draw. No pun intended.

I wiped, scrubbed, picked, bored, lubricated, and swabbed, until the reassembled piece glowed inside and out. I stood up. Racked the slide and pulled the trigger. There was a satisfying click. Everything was back where it should be. The Super.38 serves me perfectly, like a trusted comrade. I’m not a tall man, but I’m solid. Same thing with my hands. My standard-issue service Glock was more than adequate-a big improvement, in fact, over the pre-Bratton-era Beretta. I figured I was set, weapon-wise. Then I borrowed a buddy’s Wilson.38 at the practice range. Hit a four-inch grouping at 25 yards. Twice. I was in lust. I had to have a Wilson for myself. Within the year, I did. Mind you, if I ever go back to Dorje Yidam for a visit, my love of guns is yet another thing I won’t discuss with my father.

Tank slalomed between my legs, then pawed at my ankle. I looked down. Something was trapped between his jaws, something he’d caught and wanted to show off to me. I squatted on my haunches to take a closer look.

It was a hummingbird, and it was still alive. Tiny wings fluttered furiously, but that bird was going nowhere.

“Let her go, Tank!” Instinctively, I tried to pry open Tank’s jaws, but his own instincts kicked in, and he tightened his toothy clench.

Wrong strategy, Tenzing.

I looked around to assess the situation. Nobody was here, nobody but me, my cat, and his struggling prey. So I changed course, moving onto our little secret superpower, Tank’s and mine. The one I would take to my grave. I looked my pet straight in his chartreuse eyes.

“I honor you as a hunter, but as a favor to me, would you please let the bird go?” I said. Tank blinked once. Not good enough pal. So I pulled out the big guns, psychically speaking, and sent Tank a clear mental image, a picture of him gently opening his jaws, allowing his prize to fly away.

A split second later, he did it. He opened his jaws. The hummingbird dropped, wet and stunned. Maybe already dead. Tank and I waited. Then the little bird rose straight up like a helicopter, darted left, and hovered nearby, no doubt giving thanks to whatever hummingbird-deity they call on in such situations.

Tank was pretty smug about the whole incident. I tried to reinforce this by praising him vociferously for allowing a fellow sentient being to live.

As I zipped my Wilson inside its nylon pistol rug and retrieved the Glock from its aluminum case, I took note of the irony. Here I couldn’t bear for a hummingbird to die, but I was making sure my handguns stayed good and lethal for fellow bipeds.