Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

– You keep going with that attitude, Paul and Hector are gonna be heading for home and me and you are gonna be outside shoveling rocks right now. You got that ?

George looks his dad in the eye.

– Yes. I got it. I’m sorry.

His dad points at his mom.

George looks at her.

– Sorry, Mom, didn’t mean to be a smartass.

She nudges him with an elbow and smiles.

– Mustard?

– Please.

She looks at her husband.

– Lettuce and tomato?

– The works, please. Thanks.

She cuts a cheese sandwich in half from corner to corner the way Andy likes it, puts extra mayo on Paul’s ham sandwich, and pickles on Hector’s, and brings it all to the table.

The boys scrape chairs and grab sandwiches and fistfuls of chips and start eating, pausing between bites just long enough to breathe and to wipe their mouths with paper napkins.

Bob bites into his sub and nods at his wife.

– S’good, babe. Thanks.

Hector bobs his head while he chews.

– Yeah, thanks, Mrs. Whelan.

Andy picks grapes from his fruit salad and pops them in his mouth one by one.

– Good salad, Mom.

George and Paul grunt through their stuffed mouths.

Bob takes a long swallow of beer and listens to the boys argue about a band called Rainbow and whether its lead singer should be allowed anywhere near Black Sabbath.

This had never been the plan.

Being a family man, having a wife and kids, let alone playing troop leader to a couple strays like Paul and Hector, had never been in the cards at all. He’d had other things on his mind altogether. And a wife like Cindy? How the hell did he manage that? Her plan, her parents’ plan anyway, had been Stanford. Hell, they’d never have crossed paths if she hadn’t started tutoring Amy. That hadn’t happened, Amy never would have brought her to that party, he never would have ended up making out with her, never would have gotten her pregnant with George, never would have gotten married. And all the rest that came after.

Cindy’d be living in a big house over in Blackhawk or something. Lawyer husband and a housekeeper and a BMW and the country club and all that shit. Well, they could have had that stuff. Don’t have to be a lawyer to get money. Just need to have the want.

Bob thinks about the kinds of things a man can do to make money if he has the want. And he looks at his sons.

He watches George laugh and spray some chips out of his mouth and clean them from the tabletop and say excuse me. He watches the way Andy and Hector and Paul all watch him, take their cue from him. The leader of the pack. But not taking advantage of it, not lording it over his pals. Kid could be something special, just needs to put some elbow grease into it. So many things come easy to the boy, he thinks that’s the way it’s always gonna be. Bob knows that feeling. And it didn’t matter how hard his pop tried to slap it into him, he had to learn different on his own.

Cindy scoops some more fruit salad into Andy’s bowl. He picks through it, eating first the grapes and then the oranges and then the bananas and then the apples, leaving the little slivers of strawberry for last.

Bob shakes his head.

Where did he come from? And how in God’s name did he survive in the first place? Six weeks early. Could rest on the palm of your hand. Doctors telling them not to get their hopes up. Telling them that if he made it he might not be normal. Shit, they were right about that one. Normal is the last thing his youngest turned out to be.

Nine days out of ten it’s more fun to butt heads with George than it is to try and figure what the hell Andy is talking about. Pick him up from school on a rain day, he’s chattering about some theory of how the universe is all made of empty space, how everything solid is mostly just air. Or not even air. Made of just nothing. Made of the chance that something might be in all the nothing. Or some shit like that. A little kid with stuff like that in his head. Still, it’s better than when he starts in on Dungeons amp; Dragons. Might as well be speaking in tongues.

Man, if the apple’s ever fallen farther from the tree, he’d like to know about it. Still, college. Two years early and all expenses paid. His son. If that doesn’t make it all seem worthwhile, nothing else will.

He finishes the last bite of his sandwich, crumples his napkin and drops it on the plate and leans back in his chair. Cindy reaches over and kneads the back of his neck, and he runs his fingers over her bare forearm.

None of it in the cards. Thirty five. A woman like this. Sons like these.

They’d been taking bets on him fifteen years ago, most people who knew a thing about him would have had theirs on prison or a coffin. And it would have been safe money.

– Eurythmics, Culture Club, Duran Duran, Depeche Mode and the Talking Heads.

– I like “Psycho Killer.”

– I know what you like, man, it’s my fucking list and those are the five gayest bands in the world.

Hector rips open a bag of Doritos.

– There’s not really anything gay about Talking Heads.

Paul grabs the chips from him.

– Just because you like one of their songs doesn’t mean they’re not gay.

George holds out a hand and Paul passes him the bag.

– I’m with Paul on this one, the Heads are pretty gay. I mean, what’s up with the big suit?

– Fuck cares about the big suit, listen to the music.

Andy peels back the lid on a can of bean dip.

– I think Hector likes them.

– Fuck you. You don’t even have a list. There’s no music too gay for you.

Andy gets a chip from the bag and scoops a wad of dip.

So he likes a lot of music, big deal. Course, the problem isn’t liking all kinds of music, it’s liking mellow music. Not just a track like “Behind Blue Eyes,” which rocks toward the end, after all, or even instrumentals like “Orchid,” but really mellow shit. Jackson Browne. Journey. John Denver. Paul caught him listening to Denver once. Would have been better if he’d walked in on him jerking off.

For now he needs to keep his mouth shut. Otherwise the Rocky Mountain High Incident will be mentioned and harped on for the rest of the night.

He dips another chip and rolls a four sided die on his notepad and writes down a number.

Hector holds up a hand and checks off fingers one by one.

– The gayest bands are. Culture Club.

George flips another page in the Monster Manual and looks at a picture of a fire elemental.

– Culture Club goes without saying. At this point we should really be doing the gayest bands other than Culture Club and Duran Duran.

Paul has moved and is sitting next to him on the bed, looking at the pictures over his shoulder.

– Fuck, that’s cool. That’s what I want to be. Andy, I want to be a fire elemental.

– You can’t.

– Fuck can’t I?

– There’s no stats for them. I’d have to make it up again and it takes too much time. I’ll give your character something with fire that’s cool.

– Cool. Thanks.

Andy thinks about fire, he thinks about fire as a weapon and what it would be like to burn someone, and he sees what it would look like. He shakes the image away and rolls the twenty sided die.

At first he fought when the guys wanted to be monsters and shit, stuff that Dungeons amp; Dragons isn’t designed for, but then he realized it was more fun that way. The more they ignored the way the game was supposed to be played, the more fun it became for him. Chaos.

He thinks about fire again, about fractals and how they can describe a natural phenomenon like fire. He thinks about whether there is a difference between what is random and what is chaotic.