Learning From a Gun

8/12/2019 Learning From a Gun

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Dave Philpott

Mrs. Julie Allen

ENG 110 College Composition

23 May 2010

Learning from a Gun

Like most children, I used to sleep with a nightlight. It was small, with a small

bulb and a small, plastic diffuser in the shape of a candle-lamp. I wasn’t afraid of the

dark; I would often put my head under my covers and hide, secure under the warm

blankets that kept the monsters out. I didn’t mind the darkness. I was afraid of what

lived in the darkness. And I hated being afraid.

My father used to tuck me in at night. He would tell me not to worry about the

monsters, and that he wouldn’t let anything get to me. I wasn’t so sure. He was shorter

than my uncles, and my math teacher, and most of the other men I knew. What could

he do against the things that lived in the dark?

One night, just before bed, I helped him clean his service gun. It was a .38 snub-

nosed revolver, with a black metal body and dark, wooden handles. I wore his police

hat, even though it was too large; and I had to keep pushing the brim over my eyes

when it fell. The gun polish smelled sweet and oily as we worked the droplets into the

cylinder chambers. My tiny fingers were just the right size, he told me, to work the tiny

brushes.

Later, after we put away the oil and brushes and rags, he tucked me into my bed

and turned on my nightlight.

“What do you say we do something special tomorrow?”



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“Like what,” I asked, peeking over the covers.

“Like, shoot the gun.”

“A real gun?”

“Yes, son; a real gun.”

Of course I wanted to shoot the gun. I had watched a hundred cowboys in a

hundred cowboy movies pull their pistols, one in each hand, and let the lead fly. After

my father said goodnight and walked down the hallway, I crept out of bed and dug my

cowboy costume out of the closet. I found the big, white hat and hung it on my

doorknob. Once back in bed, I pulled the covers over my head and tried to sleep.

“Okay, I’m going to do it now. You ready?”

It was morning. We stood in front of the woods behind my house; my father’s

hands, strong and steady, wrapped around the curved, wooden handle of the gun. I

stood beside him, eye-level with the leather holster on his hip, as his finger curled

around the trigger. Squinting across the notch on the barrel, he drew in a breath and

aimed at a bullet-ridden target hanging deep in a clearing. Wearing my big cowboy hat, I

clenched my fists, and drew them near my face, anticipating the gun’s first shot.

“Here we go!”

He pulled the trigger, and everything went wrong at once. Fire belched from the

front of the gun as it bucked in my father’s hands and became a living thing, trying to

break free. The explosion cracked across the forest, but was cut short by a numbing

whistle in my ears. Wide-eyed, I shook, rooted where I stood. My father turned,

mouthing words I couldn’t hear, and grabbed my shoulder. His grip broke the shock,

and tears ran hot down my face.



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The guns in the movies never thundered so loud. I wanted to go back in the

house. I wanted to throw away the gun oil and the brushes and tuck myself back under

my covers. The fear washed over me in a shameful wave; I felt silly in my hat, crying the

way cowboys never did. My father read the look on my face, and crouched down to lift

my chin.

“Didn’t like that, huh?”

I shook my head, no.

“Wanna go back in the house?”

I couldn’t. I had to be brave. My father, who was smaller than my uncles and my

math teacher, who would not be able to fight the monsters in the dark, fired the loud,

smoking thing without being afraid. Again, I shook my head, no.

He smiled. “Good. Still want to try it?”

I looked at the gun, now passive in my father’s hand. It wasn’t alive. I felt the fear,

like the ringing in my ears, fading away, and I knew I had to shoot the gun. I had to hold

it in my hands and feel it kick and not be afraid. I looked away from the gun, into my

father’s eyes and nodded, yes.

“Okay. It won’t be so bad this time. I had to let you hear it, because I wanted you

to know what it can do. This isn’t like your toys, you understand?” He motioned to the

gun. I nodded, again.

“And this time, we’ll use these.” On the ground lay an orange pair of ear muffs.

Picking them up, he adjusted them, took my hat off my head, and fit the muffs over my

ears. Everything sounded distant and muddy, like being underwater. I could suddenly

hear my heart beating, loud and fast.



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My father wrapped his hands around mine as I held the gun. My little arms

struggled with the weight at first; it was nothing like the plastic six-shooters that came

with my cowboy costume.

“Take a breath and hold it,” my father said; his voice far away and deep through

the ear muffs. I breathed in, shuddering slightly.

“Look through the sights, now, and line up your shot. Put your finger on the

trigger, and when you’re ready, pull it back.” His words came out slow and quiet. I

exhaled, drew another breath and wrapped my finger around the trigger.

I could see every blade of grass in the yard. Through the ear muffs I could hear

birds in the trees in front of me. The sun, warm and brilliant, shone clear overhead, and

the perfume of the magnolia trees was sweeter than it had ever been. My senses were

alive, taking in hours of detail in seconds. Then, the seconds slowed. Then, time

stopped.

I squeezed the trigger.

The impact jolted through my arms as fire erupted from the barrel in a muffled,

hollow pop. My father’s hands, stronger than I ever knew, held the gun as it struggled to

leap from what little grip I had. Far in the clearing, the target shook, and the corners of

my mouth turned up in a slow grin. We stood there for a moment, my father and I, as

smoke drifted away from the barrel of the gun.

I’m not sure if he spoke then, but I remember staring off into th e woods, nodding

my head as if learning an old truth about the world. Inside, I felt exhausted, like I had

been running for hours. My father stood and pulled the gun from my hands. I took one

last look at it as he put it back in his holster, and we walked back to the house.



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“You did it, buddy,” he said with a wide smile on his face. Yes, I thought. I did.

That night, as I lay in bed, I didn’t think about how the gun kicked, or how it

smelled, or the eerie quiet just after the bullet fired. Instead, I thought about how afraid I

was of the gun, and its deafening bang, and the way it struggled to get free. I thought

about how small my hands were, and how I knew I couldn’t shoot it on my own. And

then I thought about my father, so cool and confident as he controlled that gun. At that

moment, he was the biggest, strongest man in the world, and I knew nothing would ever

happen to me as long as he was there.

I got out of bed and turned off my night-light, sure that I no longer needed it.

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Learning From a Gun