She stared down the barrel of that shotgun with ice water in her veins. And while she was on the business end, he was the one that was shaking like a Chihuahua shitting peach seeds. The sweat on his trigger finger threatening a premature climax, she scolded him for all his wrongs at once: "This is exactly the kind of thing that put you here tonight. Big man with a gun, no dick without."
His convulsions, although slight were growing less controlled now. Loose. The barrel appeared to bend in the way a pencil might in the hand of an elementary school trickster.
"That thing ain't holdin' no magic genie. You pull that trigger on me and your problems ain’t gonna just wash away. Matter of fact, you ain’t lived nothin’ like what you liable to step into if you keep at it."
He knew she was right – she breathed nothing but facts – but backing down now would be an admission to the both of them that he wasn’t ready to make. For the first time in his life, quitting was not the easiest option. This evening was a runaway locomotive bound to end in blood.
The truck stereo was still audible from this distance. She was a rock, unmoved, but the grainy public radio airwaves were washing over him. Tchaikovsky swelling in his ears, Symphony No. 6. He had listened hundreds of times before but had never been inspired to this particular answer, then again, this question had never been one he’d asked. The plan was set: escape, join the symphony, achieve the dream: musician on stage. The feverish harmonies were leading to the ultimate outpouring of emotion, his audience rapt.
On stage, his big moment was approaching – all eyes now attuned to him. Questioning glances darted from face to face throughout the hall. Calm yourselves, he thought. Sure, a mallet is your typical percussionist’s weapon-of-choice when faced with a gong, but I’m improvising for the 21st century: preceding the brass with steel.
His time was here! He sounded the funeral gong with a blast.
Pathétique.
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