“What? Aren’t we still going to the mountains?” I ask, trying to catch my breath.
Juan smirks and turns away.
“Why? You worried about something, Dawn?” Terry teases.
“Well, am I too late?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re still going. Calm down.” Juan sees I’m about to panic.
Right then John bursts into the room. He is dressed in his usual blue jeans, jean jacket, and Frye boots. Over his shoulder is a large, heavy duffel bag that he immediately lowers to the floor. Crouching down on one knee he unzips the bag and pulls out one of many rifles: a sleek, handsome, light brown .22 caliber with a small scope. Carefully, raising the barrel up to the ceiling, he cocks back the cartridge with one swift, smooth move to make sure the chamber is clear. He lifts the .22 up to his eye after deliberately aiming it down and away, and squints as he looks through the scope to check the hairline sights. “Looks good.” His nostrils flare and his veins bulge with every movement. Fresh out of a steamy shower, he smells clean, like fruit shampoo, and his hair is wet and combed back on the side. I am fascinated by the beginnings of a thin, light moustache on his upper lip as I watch his precise and agile movements with the rifle.
“You look good,” he comments, glancing up at me. He nods his head toward my clothes and flashes a huge blushing grin.
“Who? Me?” I stammer, stepping back, startled as all eyes stare in my direction. I glance down at myself and notice, embarrassed. My light, thin gauze shirt is soaked through with sweat, and several damp strands of my long hair are wrapped around my braless chest. My face burns, skin deep red. I rush to hug myself tightly and run for cover in the kitchen amidst waves of shrieking laughter. Grabbing the knob to the back door, I shout, “I’ll be right back!” and dash to Harriet’s for a change of clothes.
Climbing the Los Padres mountains in Ventura County from Newhall, we drive slowly off the 5 Freeway, up a windy dirt road that seems endless with drying shrubs. Red hills marbled in beige-and-white limestone swirls roll like the rough seas on either side of the bumpy path. John insists that I sit in the passenger seat next to him while Juan and Terry sit on the floor of the van. White knuckles cling onto the back of my seat. In a cloud of orange dust, we come to a stop. John briskly puts the van into park, jumps out, and walks straight for a bullet-riddled tree. Scanning the area, he rips off the old tattered targets from the center of its trunk and calls out to Juan to bring him the duffel bag.
“Coming, man.” Juan is eager to please, but flashes an oh shit look when he lifts the heavy bag.
With long strides, John crosses through the grass to rescue Juan. “Just the targets and staple gun, man,” he says, amused at how easily Juan has become fatigued.
“Oh, oh, yeah, man,” Juan replies. Sweat already drips from his brow.
John and Juan staple a fresh target to the tree and dash back to where Terry and I stand waiting. Out of the duffel bag John pulls two long, thin .22 caliber rifles, carefully pointing the barrels toward the sky. He loads the first one and checks the sight. John makes eye contact with each of us, thinks for a moment, then hands the gun over to Juan, who takes it readily.
I throw him a hard, distrustful stare. “Be careful, Juan.”
Juan blows me off and strokes the long handle of the rifle recklessly. “Watch out, Juan!” Terry and I shout. John’s head snaps up, and he immediately grabs the rifle out of his hands.
“Always, always, point the barrel of a gun up and away from anyone! Always!” John is severe; his expression twists on the brink of anger. “That means never point a gun at anyone… unless you plan to pull the trigger!”
Juan’s head hangs low; his shoulders slump at the scolding. “Okay, man,” he sighs. His cockiness fades as he timidly takes the rifle back, holding it up and away.
John eyes him hard, then walks over and finds a spot about fifty feet away. Juan follows. The rifle stock against his cheek, John takes aim and fires the weapon in rapid succession until the bullets are spent. Once again John orders Juan to keep his gun down and heads over to pull his target from the tree. I can see his smile shine from a distance. His chest is swollen, and his eyes twinkle with pride as he stomps back through the brush to show us his talent. Every shot hit the inner dark ring, and too many to count shredded the small black center into pulp.
“Wow!” We are all impressed. Juan is next. Nervously, he takes his stance and aims. When he retrieves his target, a blank target in hand, we all break out laughing, even Juan.
It is now Terry’s and my turn. John calls us over and shows us how to hold the long skinny rifle, aim through the scope, and fire.
Terry instantly takes comfortable hold of the awkwardness of the weapon and steadily fires, every shot reaching somewhere on the paper target. This time John is impressed and playfully steps out of Terry’s way, pretending to be frightened of her courage, strength, and skill.
“Quit it,” Terry jokes, half smiling at the compliment, but still shy with the non-girlishness of her nature.
John calls me next. Hesitantly, I step over the dry sticks and leaves and take the rifle from his outstretched hands. He stands with his arms around me, holding each of my hands in the proper position, one on the barrel, the other with my finger lightly on the trigger. His hair, long since dried, is damp again with perspiration, a few curls falling randomly over the blue of his eyes. I can smell the earthiness of his skin engulfing me like a rich, soft blanket. My body shakes, and my balance is unsteady. He senses my fear and my unwillingness to let go of his grip and leans his body hard against me, supporting me like a strong oak. Gently he places his head on my shoulder and presses his face into mine; his finger curls over my shaky hand, easing down on the trigger. The gun jerks upward; then, quickly, John brings it back into range and fires off the remaining shots.
I am shaking, the ringing of the shots echoing in my ears. Relieved to be done, I let John take my hand and walk me over to the tree to check the target.
“Whoa!” he shouts. “She did it!”
Stunned, I stare at three small holes on the outer edges of the target, and then I smile.
John yanks the target off the tree and, like a proud father, walks me back to Terry and Juan, his arm around me warm. I am proud too, but not for my shooting skills. I feel a strange comfortable sensation present in me. Like a missing piece to the puzzle of me has been fit into place—a small piece, but the right piece. It feels good.
The three of them take a few more turns with the gun as I graciously decline any further shooting. John doesn’t push it. I feel he understands how afraid I am of it. Instead, he shows me how to load the rifles properly.
The sun is setting, and the sky is turning its evening colors, signaling that it is almost time to go. But John is reluctant to stop. At the last minute he dives into the canvas duffel bag and pulls out two dull gray pistol cases. The first one, he explains, is a Ruger .357 caliber handgun. “There is only one reason for the existence of this gun,” John tells us with gravity, “and that is to kill.”
Ugh, I think with disgust as a chill runs down my spine. I don’t even want to touch the thing.
“And this is a genuine Colt .45,” he continues, putting on a phony, thick Western accent. This is a prettier gun than the cold menacing steel of the .357 with a smooth, glossy white handle that is polished to look like ivory. He loads both pistols, sets the .357 aside, and without inviting anyone else to shoot, grabs a pair of earplugs from the dashboard, walks to the target, and takes aim. Loud, rapid explosions pierce the air as he empties the gun into the bullet-riddled tree and returns for the Ruger. As adrenaline courses through him, his nostrils flare and his brow furrows. He spreads his legs and, with both arms extended, takes aim toward the tree, firing once again.