Reed Coleman - Gun Church

Guns, Metaphysics, and the Art of Golf , by Jim Trimble. Was this kid for real? I felt like a character in a Woody Allen movie and not one of the good ones, either. Come to think of it, fuck Woody Allen! Talk about a guy who lost his muse and got tens of millions of dollars worth of second chances. So, yeah, I wrote a few bad books and broke a few university rules, but I hadn’t been fucking my own stepdaughter. Even the Kipster had his limits.

“Golf, Jim? Do they even have golf courses in Brixton?”

“Two, up by Mirror Lake. The mine executives need something to do when they’re not counting their money.”

“Good line, I’ll have to steal it.” Uh oh, he got that aw-shucks-can-I-blow-you look on his face again. I’d have to watch how I worked this kid. “But why golf as allegory?”

“Because I know you play,” he said. “You were captain of your high school golf team.”

“That’s right, I was, wasn’t I? I forgot about that. Forgetting is a skill you’re still too young to appreciate.”

He shrugged. “But you can see the analogy, right?”

“Sure.”

“When we reached the point where we were bored by how good we’d gotten at hitting targets, it dawned on me. I understood. It was like a revelation from the Bible. We were bored because, like with the golf clubs, we were hitting balls into a net. That’s not what handguns are for.”

“No, they’re for killing people.”

“Exactly!”

At that moment, the waitress delivered our food. “Fries with gravy for you,” she said, sliding the plate in front of Jim. “And a burger for you, Professor Weiler.”

She wasn’t as enthusiastic about serving me as she’d been only a few weeks ago. All fame is fleeting. The waitress’s once-pretty face had plumped up and frayed with time. She looked like she’d been squeezed into her polyester uniform by a blind sausage maker. Funny, she’d been working here since the day I arrived in Brixton, but I never really noticed her before. I mean, really noticed her.

“Do you know our waitress?” I asked Jim as she walked away.

“Irina? Sure. Everybody knows Irina. You must’ve seen her in here.”

“But what’s her deal?”

“She was Stan’s high school girlfriend. He knocked her up, made her get an abortion, and then he split for Penn State.”

“At least Stan is a consistent asshole, but how do you know about Irina and him? That had to be before you were born.”

“C’mon, Kip, I haven’t been much of anywhere, but I don’t think places get much smaller than Brixton. Everybody knows everybody else’s business ’round here.”

“Sounds like publishing.”

He laughed, but didn’t know why.

I realized that I had lived in Brixton for seven years and not only didn’t I know the lay of the land, I didn’t know the people. Sure, I knew about Stan Petrovic, but only because he wore his surliness like clown makeup. I didn’t know the place or the people because I hadn’t wanted to know. I held myself apart. I didn’t know anything about the women I slept with. It wasn’t like they didn’t try to tell me. Christ, Janice Nadir would’ve told me the pet names for her vagina had I shown the least bit of interest.

“You going to eat your burger?” Jim asked, stuffing a handful of gravy fries in his mouth. “You seem kinda distracted.”

I bit into the burger only to heave it right back up. The meat was cold and raw. When I looked up, I saw Stan Petrovic, his eyes twinkling, his crooked lips bent into a smug, self-congratulatory smile. I removed the top of the bun from the burger to confirm what my taste buds and gag reflex had already told me.

“What an asshole!” Jim jumped up like he’d done that day in class.

I grabbed his arm. “Sit down, Jim. This is my fight.”

As I walked up to Petrovic, I took notice of what a nasty package he really was. The bad knees, the alcohol and bitterness, the fried and fatty food had turned him into a pitiable-looking fat man; but I knew there was an angry, second team All-American linebacker still living inside his blubber suit. By the time I got close to him, he’d swapped his smile for a sneer. He was puffed up, the fingers on both his hands twitching in anticipation. The diner was silent except for the bubbling and hissing of oil in the fry-o-lator.

I’d done a little boxing in college-just enough to know that fights never went the way you expected and to know when I was going to get my ass kicked. Short of a miracle, I was about to get my ass kicked.

“Hey, hero, what you think you’re gonna do to me? I ain’t no college kid with a gun in his hand and there ain’t no SWAT team here to save your faggoty ass.”

“I guess I could kick you in the balls, but that would require you to have some.”

He snickered, but said nothing. His now clenching fists were going to do the rest of his talking, so I let mine get in the first word. I feinted with my left shoulder, but threw my right hand. Stan lifted his arms to protect his face as my trunk twisted to power the punch. Too bad for him I wasn’t going for his head. I caught him flush in the liver with the hook. I figured the liver was as good a target as any. Given his intake of vodka and deep fried food, it must’ve been foie gras central.

That bent him over and the rush of air that went out of him was pretty impressive. But instead of following up, I did what I always do: I spent too much time playing to the crowd. Stan, still bent over, charged me, his left shoulder burying itself in my ribs. I tried keeping my feet, but it was no good. I was going down. My left hand spun off a counter stool and that was my last moment of verticality.

Petrovic was on me, pulling at my legs trying to get me out from between the stools. But I’d hitched my arms around the stool poles on either side of me to anchor myself and I kicked out my legs. My left heel connected with something hard. His jaw, I hoped. Whatever it was just pissed him off. He gave up on my legs and brought his right forearm down across my diaphragm and abdomen. Something big and spongy, my left lung probably, caught in my throat and I gasped for air. Suddenly that first punch I threw didn’t seem like such a brilliant move. I tried turning on my side and curled into a ball like a hedgehog, but I lacked protective quills. Petrovic kicked me in the back, but it didn’t land with much force as his foot deflected off one of the poles.

The front door opened; the string of sleigh bells tied to the handle clanged against the glass. I felt a gush of cool, fresh air and I saw a pair of polished black boots walking my way. Christmas coming early. Maybe Santa was bringing me a shotgun.

“That’s enough, Stan!” Black Boots barked. Petrovic disagreed, stomping instead of kicking me. This time his shoe didn’t deflect off anything but my ribs. Good thing I already couldn’t breathe or it might’ve really hurt.

“Enough!”

I recognized the voice. It was the deputy sheriff who’d been at the Air Force base three nights ago. I guess he was taking a break from high school skirt patrol. Still, I was wary enough of Stan to brace myself against another stomp. It never came. Arms were pulling me up and I was standing-well, sort of standing-between Deputy Dog and Jim Trimble. I managed some shallow breaths.

“You all right, Professor Weiler?” the deputy wanted to know.

Do I look all right, you yokel motherfucker? “Fine. I’m fine.” I straightened myself out and noticed Petrovic about ten feet away over by the front door. He was snarling. I can’t say that I’d ever actually seen a human snarling before. “Somebody get Stan a bone or some Liv-A-Snaps or something before he goes batshit.”

“Fuck you, asshole. This isn’t over.”