Sausage, Eggs, and a Shotgun

 The sausage links were just finishing up when Kenny came roaring into the drive with his '71 Ford Ranger.

  Yup...Like clockwork.  He hasn't changed a bit.  I scoop up some eggs and a few sausage links onto a plate and set it on the table for him.

 When we were kids Kenny had this nasty habit of waking up at the ass crack of dawn. The early riser would then wake everyone else up in the process as he turned on the radio, banged around pots and pans, and slammed kitchen cabinet doors shut while cooking his breakfast.  I might have been able to forgive him had he cooked breakfast for me as well.  But he only cooked enough for himself; the shit head.

 Subtlety is a form of expression that I believe Kenny may be capable of but rarely feels the need to use. He is a boisterous, up and at 'em morning person who simply can't fathom why anyone would want to sleep in and miss the beginning of yet another glorious day.

 Yeah, whatever you say there sunshine....

 I got up early just guessing that Kenny would be showing up. (It helped that I couldn't sleep anyway) I had no desire to wake up to the sound of him over enthusiastically banging on the door, yelling my name, then asking me why in the hell I locked my door after I let him in.

 “Well, look at you.  You even got me a plate ready. That makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” Kenny says, smiling as he stomps into the kitchen and helps himself to the coffee. (As if he needs coffee)  “Hell, I brought a breakfast casserole thinking I was going to have to rouse you out of bed.  I'll just stick it in the fridge and you can have it some other time.”

 “Oh, well thank you.”

 “Welcome.”

 “You want any cream or sugar with your joe?”

 “No, no....Black is good.”

 “OK.”

 “I'm surprised you don't have a pot of rice going.”

 “I haven't pulled the rice cooker out of the box yet.” (I can't find it...)

 “Uh-huh.”

 I grab a mug and help myself to a cup of coffee.  I hadn't had any yet in the hopes that by some miracle Kenny wouldn't show up with the rising of the sun. Then I could just eat and go back to bed.

 “So how long before you start your new job?” asks Kenny

 “I actually started a couple of weeks ago, and it's not a new job, just a transfer.”

 “Damn, that's a long commute from your old house.  How do you like the new environs?”

 “It's not the greatest in terms of job satisfaction, but I can walk in, put on my headphones, and write code all day without anyone bothering me.”

 Kenny smirks, “Shocker.....Jumping right in and making new friends I see.”

 “Kenny, I can't just walk in and talk everyone's ear off the way you do.....I need time to settle in.”

 “Alright...Alright....” 

 Oddly, Kenny let the matter die.  He's usually all over me about my social and emotional constipation. 

 We couldn't be any more opposite if we tried.  Kenny can talk to anyone in his smooth and easy going manner.  He speaks his mind and is not afraid to be open and honest with people, friends and strangers alike; and, as I had mentioned previously, he can do it all with a smile that can diffuse just about any heated conversation.  He makes it all seem so effortless…

 Still, I pity any fellow introvert who may get stuck sitting next to him on a long plane ride.

 Me?  If I don't know you, I'm not talking to you.  Hell, even if I do know you I still may not talk.  I struggle mightily with small talk and will try to do whatever I can to avoid it.  I keep a pair of headphones with me at all times.  If I fear a conversation, especially with a stranger, is imminent I pull my headphones out of my pocket, plug into my phone, turn on my music and tune out.

I don't go out with friends after work.  I fear the bar scene. I don't (voluntarily) go to company parties.  I don't go to weekend barbecues.  No --- I go straight home to either read a book or watch a movie. 

I'm the kind of person that craves --- NO --- needs down time.  It's not unusual for me to shut myself up into my bedroom for hours at a time; just me and my book.  I can literally go all day without uttering a word to another living soul.  Kenny thinks it's psychotic.

 It takes me a long time to trust someone or to become comfortable enough to hold a casual conversation.  Well, unless that conversation has anything to do with baseball; then I can talk to just about anybody.  I for the life of me can't figure out why but baseball is the one thing I can talk about constantly. The game is my sanctuary, my comfort zone.  I just love the game of baseball....

 Kenny points to my hand, “Still got your wedding ring on, I see.”


Didn't we just talk about this last night?  The one thing about Kenny that drives me up a wall is how he can't let something go.  He is relentless and obsessive in his desire to see or talk things through....

But  I guess that's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? I'm not exactly "letting go" myself now, am I?  Yes, I am still wearing my ring.

 “The divorce isn't final yet.  So until then I'm still married.”

 Kenny nods his head slowly and asks quietly, “And still hanging on to hope?”

Brother, I'm ready to change the subject whenever you are.......

 I fiddle with the ring on my finger for a moment before I answer.

 “Yeah, something like that.”

 “Well, I'll hope with you.” says Kenny, “I like Lacey.....It's just not the same without her.”

 “Yeah, well, she deserves someone better than me.”

 Unexpectedly, Kenny yells, no screams at the top of his lungs, “WALLOWER!!!!!” --- and he does it with great gusto....Like a drill instructor who tenses up every single muscle in his body as he gets nose to nose with a new recruit.

 Caught completely off guard, I jump and spill my coffee....

“Well, good morning!!!” screams my burning crotch….

 “AH......DAMMIT.....HOT!!!!”

Kenny is most amused as I shoot out of my chair, screaming in a new language and doing the stupid man dance.

 “Christ,” I yell, “What in the hell is the matter with you?”

 Kenny calmly sits back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee before he answers.  “My wallow alarm went off.”

 “You know, you can be a real asshole sometimes.”

 “Aye, but what a wonderful, well-meaning asshole I am.” Why is he talking like a pirate?

 Kenny rises from his chair and begins opening kitchen cupboards.  “Go change your pants.  I'll fill up a to-go mug.”

 “To-go mug?  For what?” I ask.

 “I brought some guns.  Let's go shoot some clay.”

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 There are certain things in this world that are constant.  The passing of time, death, taxes, etc., etc....Kenny's ability to shoot and my incredible gun toting ineptitude.

 Kenny has yet to miss a clay.  I have yet to hit one.  I'm a disgrace to small town rednecks everywhere.

 Each orange clay launched from the old skeet shooter hovers in the air and only breaks if it hits the ground just right.  If a clay were a living breathing being it would fly before me devoid of stress; comfortable in the knowledge that the dumb ass fumbling with the shotgun has no real chance in hell of hitting it. 

 Frustration begins to set in.....

 “I'm wasting your ammo, dude.”

 “How long has it been since you fired a weapon?”  asks Kenny

 “Since before I got married.”

 “Well, then it's understandable.  Just keep shooting.  You'll settle in.”

 Ten minutes later I finally hit my first clay.  The way I whooped you would have thought that I had won the lottery.

 “Hallelujah!!!!  I now suck less.”

 “Oh, yeah,” says Kenny, “What does Les think of that?”

 “Shut up.”

 After a while we set our guns down and go looking for all the clays that I missed in the hopes that we may be able to find a few of them intact.

 “Have you heard from Kirk?” I ask.

 Kirk is the third boy of four in our family.

 “Yeah, I talked to him last night.” answered Kenny, “He decided to take summer classes and won't be coming home from college this summer.  He's bound and determined to graduate as fast as he can.”

 “Oh, yeah?  What's his rush?”

 “You remember Mr. Rollins, our old high school science teacher?” asks Kenny

 “Rotten egg Rollins?  How can you forget a guy like that?”

Mr. Jimmy Rollins (no relation to the baseball player) is a teaching legend....Well, at least in these parts he is.

 Once a school year Mr. Rollins would mix together a concoction of chemicals that would literally make the entire high school reek of rotten eggs.  He took immense pleasure in watching all of his fellow faculty members open windows in a vain attempt to acquire some badly needed fresh air.  It was the one time of year you could actually hear faculty swear openly.  I wonder if Mr. Rollins set off his rotten egg concoctions before he made tenure?  I'm guessing no.

Mr. Rollins was the junior high football coach --- which became the birthplace of the greatest plays in our towns history.

Mr. Rollins wasn't very tall, maybe 5'8"?  But he was all of three hundred plus pounds; a large, bowling ball of a man.  One season, the class above me devised the now infamous play known as the "Jimmy Dean, Pork, Pork, Dive."

It was a kickoff play (so I'm not sure where the dive comes in but, hey, who am I to ask?).  Once the ball was in the air the entire special teams unit veered hard to the right --- and dog piled an unsuspecting Mr. Rollins standing on the sidelines. 

I have not idea how much trouble they got into but every one of them swears that it was worth the punishment.....And they didn't dog pile him because hey hated him.  No.  Quite the opposite.  They loved Mr. Rollins.....Kind of a strange way to show your affection if you ask me.


 “Well,” said Kenny “Mr. Rollins is waiting for Kirk to graduate before he retires.  It is pretty much a foregone conclusion that Kirk will be the new high school science teacher once Rollins goes.”

 “Ah. The perks of living in a small town.”

 “Yeah, verily.”

 “And how is Iraq treating Keith?” I ask.  Keith is our Marine and baby of the family....

 “Not a clue.” answers Kenny, “He's just like you.  He doesn't communicate worth a shit.”

 “Ah.”

 “You know, it wouldn't kill you to pick up a phone every once in a while.”

 “Yeah, I know......But I would still appreciate it if you didn't give out my number.”

 “Yes, Mr. Hermit.  I assure you that only family members have your phone number.  No one will be calling you.  However I can't promise that no one will drop by your place for a visit.”

 “What?  Who knows that I'm here?”

 “Everybody.”

 “Dude, you're the only person I told that I was coming back.  I didn't want the whole town to know that I'm here.”

 “Kyle, have you forgotten how a small town works?” asked Kenny, “I know you didn't want  me tell anyone, but I had to tell Becky who I found to rent her place.  And you know as well as I do that if I tell her to keep it a secret it will not only be all over town within ten minutes but people will come snooping around just to see what all the secrecy is about.  Your business is everyone's business here.....Remember?”

 “Damn....Unfortunately, yes I do. ”

 “Oh, don't worry.   I have it all taken care of.  I believe I have at least bought you a little time to yourself.”

 “Yeah, how so?”

 “I told Becky about your marriage falling apart.  That you're taking it hard and basically walking around, unwashed, slobbering and peeing in mason jars.  After I told her that I had to promise her that I would be at your house at least twice a week to make sure you weren't tearing anything up.”

 I didn't even bother to ask Kenny if he was pulling my leg.  Chances are he wasn't; that's just the way Kenny talks.

 “Thank you.....I think. Is that why the deposit was so high?"

"Possibly."

 "You know it’s good thing I'm not looking for a date here because you just killed any chances that I had of that.”

 “Yes, your complete isolation is at least temporarily assured.”

 Kenny  pulls a small pistol out of his jacket.  I mean real small.

 “Hey, check this baby out.”

 “What is it?  Does is actually work?”

 “Oh, yes, it definitely works.”  Kenny hands me the pistol.  It's so small that it fits inside the palm of my hand.  “This is a Derringer single shot pistol.  Some people refer to it as a palm pistol.”

 “Yeah, I can see why.”

 “Would you like to fire it?” Kenny asks, “I can set up a clay on that stump over there.”

 “Um, yeah, okay.  Why not.”

 “Great.”

 As Kenny sets up the clay I inspect this small, odd looking firearm.

 “This thing looks ancient.”  I say.

 “Yeah, it's been around for a while.” Kenny answered, “Here, let me chamber a round for ya.”

 Kenny hands back the pistol.  I try to take aim at the clay sitting upon the stump.  But the pistol is so small that I'm having a hard time getting a firm grip on it.

 “This is awkward.  Is there a certain way that I'm supposed to hold this?”

 “Nah, your doing fine.  Go ahead and take a shot.”

 I wasn't convinced, but went ahead and turned my attention to the target.  It just felt strangely unsecure in my hand.

 I really didn't take much of an aim; there's no poing.  With a regular pistol I can't hit he broad side of a barn so I knew my chances of hitting the clay with this funky little piece of weaponry were about as good as a snow balls chance in hell.

 I slowly squeeze the trigger.  As soon as the pistol fires I lose my grip, the recoils sends it flipping end over end and the Derringer buries itself into my forehead.

 “PAIN!!!  AH, SHIT!!!!!  AAAGHHHH!!!!!!”

 Kenny laughes as he pats me on the back.  “Well, I think that's enough shooting for one day.  What do you say we grab a beer and hang out on your old front porch?”

 “Shit.....Do I have a bruise?”

 “No, you're fine; just a little red mark.”

 “Dammit....Yeah, a beer sounds good.  Let's go.”