Boys, I've noticed, often want foolish things. Your average nine-year-old, for instance, has no practical use for a flame-thrower. But I've never met a boy who didn't want one.
When I was nine, there was nothing in the world I longed for more than to be shot. With a gun. Preferably in the leg.
I knew it would hurt, probably a lot, but I didn't care. I gladly would have paid someone my allowance for a month to shoot me just above the knee. If I'd known anything about calibers, I would probably have chosen a .22 with a low-yield round, maybe bird-shot. The point was to get myself an awesome scar, but live to brag about it.
Just like the kid I met on the drive-in movie playground. It was summertime and the playground was crowded with the noisy progeny of middle-class parents waiting for the sun to set so the projectionist could cue up the latest James Bond thriller. I saw the kid's scar while we were spinning on the merry-go-round.
Nine-year-old boys don't know from social graces, so I blurted it out: "What's that?" I asked, pointing to his truly impressive wound; a shiny, round hole, healed over and surrounded by scar tissue radiating outward. It was the coolest thing I'd ever seen in my life.
"My dad shot me," he answered without preamble or explanation.
"No way," I said. A small crowd of boys had begun to gather around the kid and his scar. He was enjoying the attention and who could blame him.
"My dad was cleaning his gun and it went off," the kid explained.
This was followed by a chorus of "Cool!" and "Wow!" and "Did it hurt?"
It was cool and it was wow and—according to the kid—it did hurt.
I didn't care. From that point on I wanted a cool scar of my own. Oh, I had a couple by then; one on the forehead from a car accident and one on my right hand, from the time I tripped while carrying a glass jar filled with caterpillars. But I had nothing to compare with this kid's bullet hole. Compared to that, my scars were stubbed toes, the sniffles, hiccups.
A couple years later I was hit by a car and had to walk around on crutches for a few months. That was OK, but still, nowhere near as cool as a bullet hole.
Considering the end-of-the-relationship moments I’ve had with at least a couple of my ex-wives, it’s a miracle I haven’t been shot by now. I still think it would be cool to have a bullet scar, but I’m no longer so sure I’m willing to live through the pain involved in getting one.
Who says I never grew up?
Mike Taylor’s book Looking at the Pint Half Full is available in eBook format from Borders, Barnes & Noble, and other online booksellers or in paperback from mtrealitycheck.com.
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