The BB Gun Prince

It was a summer day like any other. In a week the hay would be ready, and I would be spending every hour trudging this way and that. The sweat and hay-dust would combine into a sticky black gook which would coat my throat and settle into my nose and ears. I would be blindly following the directions of Mr. Houston, performing all manner of tasks that he was now too rich to do himself. My hands would again become like leather from the bail strings, and with them I would devour the fly covered sandwiches at lunch - each sandwich was destined to be stained black from my filthy grip because fatigue and hunger would overcome my repulsions. But today was just another summer day, and all I had to do, was find things to do.

I found my way to the kitchen. Despite my morning stupor, I was driven by a single thought; that my friends were awake and already out having fun, without me. The routine was well established by this point in the summer. Wake up, stand around outside until enough of my friends were there, and then collectively decide on something to do. Maybe we would go fishing, exploring, walk the tracks shooting everything that moved or go watch Keith Clavenger's mom sunbathe. We all seemed to end up at Keith's house to grab a drink of water on the days his mom was tanning. My mind snapped back at the sound of the cereal hitting the bowl. The box was nearly empty but it was enough. I shoved larger and larger spoonfuls into my mouth as the anticipation of the day grew, and I became more and more awake. The bowl clanged in the sink and the milk splashed on the counter. "I wont get blamed for the mess if I'm not here." - I pressed the latch to the screen door and the sun crashed against my face.

I was immediately aware that it was early morning. "Fuck!" I said under my breath. Keith won't be out for hours. His stupid mom always makes him take showers and be clean. Maybe I'll just shoot some stuff. I went back inside and paused to decide if I wanted a 4-10, .22 or my BB gun. Bullets costs money, so I took the BB gun. Trudging down the steps and into the yard, I headed north. Across the street was the grain elevator. A semi-truck was already there, idling so loudly that the men standing around had raised voices to hear each other. They were milling around, drinking coffee. I walked by them with my dirty face, bed-head and dusty pants. "Hey kid, you any good with that thing?" - one of the men asked. All of them stopped to hear my response. I wasn't much for talking about my shooting when actions would speak for me. Along the road was a telephone line which was always dotted with pigeons. They sat like a row of targets. I swung my gun around and dropped a shot right onto the line, which was the only way to make all the birds jump and fly. They flew around and quickly lined back up. The men laughed and smiled at me, one of them remarked, "I guess so!" Then the elevator owner said, "I'll tell you what kid, I'll give you a nickel for each pigeon, come and see me later in the office." My silence was broken quickly and I asked, "You sure?" and he agreed. A nickel wasn't much but what a cool day this was going to be.

Around the back of the elevator I crept - inside silos and around rusted equipment. I was a killing machine. I took a whole row of 15 birds off one line without startling them away. The stupid birds just sat there, while one by one I dropped them. I got more than half a grocery bag full of pigeons before the morning dew was even burned off. I ran home to scarf down some food and get more ammo. By this time my friends were waiting, their eyes asking the only question we ever had in the morning. "No I can't play now, I have a job to do"... I could not be more specific or they would surely be plucking my nickels from the roosts around the buildings. With an empty bladder and a full load of BB's, I headed straight back to the killing.

I was almost out of sight from the elevator office, when the voice of the elevator owner above me asked "How's it going?" I looked up but I could not see him. I knew he could see me from the windows above. "Pretty good, I got some." I wasn't about to show the guy how many or he might not want me to continue. I knew from the very start, he had no idea how many birds I could accumulate in a day. Another line of birds had just formed up and I took them one by one as I had before. Somehow the idea of hunting a single bird seemed like too much work after I had it so easy earlier. I worked the lines quickly and rarely missed. Row by row they fell. It was not even sporting, it was just work. The time came when I ran out of easy marks. The only way now was to get higher up. I had to get the birds on the really high lines which were out of range from the ground. I slipped into an open door around the back of the building and saw the ladder that went up. I had seen the ladder many times before but I had known better than to climb it. I remember my older brother Gary told me, "don't even try it". He called it a "widow maker," and then he had to explain to me that it would not hold the weight of a man. Somehow my mind filled in the spaces between his words with, "It was the kind of thing only a kid could do". The wood was rotten and every rung was completely covered with dung. It was the pigeon crap that pushed me to try because, where there is dung, there are birds. I scaled the ladder which ascended up into the highest reaches of the elevator. Some of the rungs did break and some were missing altogether, but I just kept going. I was invincible - we all were. Each hand-hold would break free a ledge of dried bird crap which would fall onto my face and into my hair. When I got to the top, I could see that I had out-climbed the perches I was trying to get to. I saw dozens of nests, and I rested on a small shelf by a tiny window which was broken. The wind was blowing and it felt so good that I closed my eyes to feel it even better. I could see all the way to Keith's house and even to the creek in the distance. I tried to bend far enough to see the other direction but there just wasn't room to maneuver.

An hour passed while I was up there. I could see the wind blowing the trees. I watched a train pass on the tracks - it looked like a toy. I knew I would never climb this again. It was a place I always wanted to go and somehow, being there took all the pleasure out of killing pigeons. A sort-of peace fell over me. I had done something really cool and nobody knew it but me. I had climbed the "widow maker" and felt the wind on my face at the top. Some time was spent tossing splinters of wood down the hole and spitting over the side of the shelf. I wished someone I knew would look up and see me in the window. I imagined how astonished and impressed people would look if they saw me waving, but it did not happen. The time had come to head down. Down was harder. I had to go slow and reach with my feet for the next rung. Half way down one of the boards gave way and my chin smacked into a rung and split open. The reality of my situation sank in when I had blood trickling down my chin. I went more slowly and was extra careful. Eventually I stepped out of the grain elevator and looked up to the window where I had been. It was surreal but I had done it. I was a silent prince who had looked down over his kingdom. I wanted so badly to tell my twin brother what I had done but to tell him was to challenge him to do it, and I could not risk it.

I sprayed my face and chin with the garden hose, and gathered up all the birds from all the little piles I had left here and there. I needed a wheel barrel and I got one from the garage. I could only walk a few steps at a time before the overloaded wheel barrel would rock and pour some birds out. But a few steps at a time, I made my way to the elevator office door. I knocked and a man came. I'll never forget his face. He looked down at a whole barrel of birds. He said to his boss, "Ya better come take look at this." The man who had struck a deal with me looked out the door and burst into laughter. He said "How many you have there?" - "I don't know yet - I figured we'd count them up together." He said for me to count them and he would trust me for the number. I counted twice, "211!" He smiled and said, "Pay the man." It was over $10. I put the Ten Dollar bill in my pocket, and with the loose change, I bought a coke from the guy at the counter. After a long guzzle of pop and a manly burp, I asked the owner if I could come back tomorrow, but he told me, he could not afford it.