The Vocabulary of Guns

53.

Maginnis is on the Superdome loading dock, already bossing around his peers. Dr. Dex and Lil Roy push a bin full of bagged ice off into the bowels of the stadium as TC wrestles with the giant ice-making machine. He sees me walking up and says, “Good, now somebody else can do this. This shit sucks!” Maginnis asks me where’s my shirt, referring to the ubiquitous maroon Ogden Foods t-shirts he and TC and the others are wearing.

“I’m not working tonight.”

“What?”

TC stops the machine. I tell them, my two greatest friends in the entire world a lie. A tell them that last summer two guys beat up JW and tried to rape her. I tell them that I know where they live and I’m gonna go kick their ass. Even as these lies fall from my lips my voice trembles with emotion. I tell them that I’m on my way to Houston and do either of them know how far it is? No, not really, they don’t. Maginnis has driven from Iowa to New Orleans but Texas is a mystery even to him. TC of course doesn’t drive. They believe me. TC in particular is ready to bail out on the night’s pay and join me for the trip. Maginnis would too if he wasn’t Mr. Honesty and Integrity, Class of 1985. He shakes his head sadly. He says something about wishing Miguel Champ were here. Miguel would take charge of this and make sure it got handled right.

“I’m gonna handle it right. I’ve got my shotgun riding shotgun. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to do this without Miguel.”

“Be careful,” says TC, the future attorney emerging as he weighs the gravity of my threats. “You get caught with a gun you might not make it back for the game next week. Your ass might be getting butt-fucked in a Texas jailhouse.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“What about the Saints game?” says Maginnis. “You’re not gonna miss that are you?”

I tell him yes, that I’ll have to miss the privilege of watching the Saints get their ass kicked tomorrow. They’re terrible, again. I might as well be playing quarterback for those sad sacks. But I can’t and I won’t. I’ll be busy tomorrow. By noon, it should all be over. Like the Saints, beaten already even as they rest in their hotel rooms, two doomed bad boys whom I lied about so plausibly, denying their truth, the Truth, that what they did was oh so much more, but I can’t and I won’t do that to JW nor do that to my friends. I don’t want them to see her that way. I want them to continue to see the girl that I fell in love with, those uniquely long arms and legs, that tiny bouffant of perfectly relaxed hair, that cocoa caramel skin, that obscure birthmark over her eye that resembled a permanent bruise, like the bruise she had when they punched her to the floor and she called out ‘Gabriel!’ one time but one time too many it seemed. So goodbye to my friends. Let them live just a few moments longer in the bliss of ignorance.

“When are you leaving?” says Maginnis.

“I don’t know. Maybe in a few hours. I wanna get there around dawn tomorrow. Do it early and go, you know?”

TC looks at me with a strong, pointed gaze. Like the rest of them, he’s bought into my lies, my false past, my Potemkin villages of experience. Gangs, drugs, older women, I’ve pretended to do it all. The vocabulary of guns has carried me far. They imagine a secret history that I’ll be spending the rest of my life trying to live down, or live up to. “Don’t get yourself fucked up,” says TC.

No sir, I sure don’t want to do that.

“You can crash at my house for a few hours,” says TC.

“Mine too,” says Maginnis.

“Okay,” I say, and we three slap dap the way the black guys have taught us. It’s time to get back to work. Forklifts are running up and down the dock. The ice machine cranks back to life. TC grimaces, curses the machine and puts on his gloves.

“See ya,” says Maginnis and he looks down at the ground, at a loss for words. “You’re doing the right thing,” he says. “I just wish we could help you.”

Then he turns and goes. But it’s okay Maginnis, TC. Only I can do this and I can only do this alone. It’s my special power, my only gift.