Some sisters share make-up tips, heartbreak woes and hand-me-downs. My sister, Kim, and I share a birthday, a love of driving and automobiles and quality breakfasts. Recently, she trekked all the way from her current home state of Oklahoma just so I could enjoy the privilege of commuting in a 5 series for a week. Here are a few other details about my one and only sibling:
- She's 9 years older than me to the day. (Our parents apparently enjoyed certain seasons of love more than others.)
- While we both possess our father's facial features, she's taller, slimmer, has straighter, whiter teeth and decidedly smaller breasts than me.
- She officially retires from serving Uncle Sam one week before turning 40. (She sucks, albeit in an authoritatively sergeantal sort of way. )
Her line of work has imbued in her a certain appreciation for defense mechanisms of the tangible sort--the sawed-off/pearl-handled/permit required variety. My defense mechanisms are more of the, um, psychological, pseudo-Ninja sort; I'd rather slay you with words and/or wry, perfectly timed humor than to wield any sort of weaponry. On this, she essentially says tuh-may-toe, I say tuh-mah-tuh and we both agree they're great with salmon patties and grits for breakfast.
Our father, currently known as Pistol Pete, has a history of arms-bearing (which led him to his current cross-bearing mode, but that's a whole other blog's worth of dialogue, chi'ren!). From him Kim has gleaned his appreciation for pistols. They're proactive about guns; they wield, palm, load, cock and disassemble, etc. Mags and I, however, are reactive about guns--we see one and whether it's being held or resting in a case we automatically heed the "Stick-em-up" call and freeze. Indefinitely.
Kim has made it a mission to re-program my gut reaction to guns, but at present I'm more Gomer Pyle than Patton in the making. Her promise of a nice Okie Stetson to match my cowboy boots is swaying me, but ... Case in point, our first "This is How You Do It" exchange. It took place in her well-equipped car in a parking lot outside of a Pep Boys, because in addition to needing to improve my self-defense abilities, I also apparently needed a crash course in under-the-hood car assessment.
Leaning forward in the passenger seat to adjust the floormat I'd kicked out-of-place I unearthed what we'll call Exhibit A. She has a name for her (because we give inanimate objects more prominent names than animate ones--shout-out to my long-gone dog, Zero), but I was too scared by her big, heavy blackness to recall it. Fresh off our obligatory IHOP breakfast, I was feeling bold enough to flex some moxie, so I pointed to the piece in its hiding place and cheerfully said, "Tell me about this. What is this all about?"
Ain't nothin' but a thang was basically her reaction as she pulled it out and handed it to me like she was offering me a stick of gum. Of course, we both quickly recognized that the clumsiness and lack of common sense I had when I was a kid still fully applied to firearms. I held the nine in my hand like it was a dirty tissue, which is obviously a no-no, but it was my gut reaction. I was immediately dismayed by the weight of the damn thing--it absolutely made me question my lack of upper body strength. She had to show me how to turn the safety on and off because my hand was starting to shake at the thought of it being loaded and me not knowing the difference. Plus, despite seeing the permit for it, I was still convinced that all guns fall under an all-seeing Mordor-like eyeball, and as soon as the thing saw the light of day gang-bangers from all eras and corners of the world would warp onto our horizon ready to take us down in a blaze of glory.
Next, I wondered aloud how the "bulletholder" (my word) went in, but I figured that out based on my kindergarten-like mastery of which shape fits within which hole. Then I got curious about how the bullets go in the holder. Kim used her thumb to pop them out like they were Mentos and put them back in like coins going into a slot machine and handed it over for me to try. I commenced to spray the damn things all over the place like confetti on New Year’s Eve. She put it back together and nonchalantly begins to say things like, “All you gotta do is,” while aiming it to simulate how one needs to point and shoot. Anytime anyone in my family gives me the "All you gotta do is," we all brace ourselves for what will inevitably become a "How in the hell did you fuck that up?" moment of head-shaking retrospect.
We discussed in which hand we thought I should fire the gun, and then she went on about some mess about picking a spot and squinting with each eye to figure out which eye I’d use. I’d like to think I could be sensible and bold enough to choose an eye, but the reality is that I’m more likely to squint them both shut and just shoot until whatever it is that’s approaching me hopefully drops dead or turns around and goes away forever. She tried to hand it back to me like I was going to simulate what she’d shown me. Not a chance. I put that li’l black butcher back in it’s little holster thing, checked the safety eight times and tucked it back where I found it.
Then Danita, Aged 9 magically resurfaced as I proceeded to pick up the can of WD-40 we'd just purchased to simulate what I’d just seen. Arm locked straight, left eye squinched shut, I got all SVU with it and wouldn’t you know it?!
Shazam!
Fired that junk like it was as real as a glockenspiel and greased the hell out of her windshield. She had the nerve to look at me like I was crazy, so I gave her a look back that said:
Suffice it to say I suspect her mission may remain unaccomplished. As much as I fancy the idea of bein' an ol' biddie guardin' her porch and land with one of my Papa's sawed-off shotguns, the reality is I'm more inclined to stupify someone with a Harry Potter wand than shoot them. And the only Patton I can really get with is a patent leather shoe. Besides, the world ain't ready for a trigger finger as quick as mine no how.