It was a bad day.
When you got as old as Gunny Besch, you had good days and bad days.
I saw mostly bad days.
The bad days always started the night before. I knew when I'd arrive in the morning to pick him up for work. On good days, he'd be waiting for me in his little kitchen, practically standing at attention in his button-down shirt and creased polyester pants. He'd growl something about my tardiness, throw down the last swallow of his coffee, and we'd be off.
On the bad days, I'd find him in his skivvies, propped up over his sink, his arms shaking with fatigue. I'd wait in the kitchen, make coffee, and fill a Thermos for him. He always complained that my coffee tasted like "boiled shit."
He smoked a pipe. The rich, earthy smell of the tobacco followed him around like cologne, even when he didn't have the stem of his small meerschaum clenched in his teeth.
I can't remember how I was nominated to be Gunny's commute buddy. Someone heard that he needed something to keep him busy. The owner of the sporting goods store where I worked thought he'd look good behind the counter.
This meant that we'd both get to the store a few hours before opening. He'd sit behind the counter reading the paper, taking pulls at coffee he made himself, and puffing at his pipe.
We never had what you'd call conversations. I'd be busy verifying the register count from the night before, checking shipments, stocking shelves, sweeping floors, and cleaning the bathrooms. Gunny never had much to say. Over the years, we developed an understanding bred of silence.
When he did open his mouth, it was usually to lash the penis-wagging idiots who parade through sporting goods stores.
One guy spent about 20 minutes trying to prod Gunny into a discussion about guns and reloading.
"I've been reloading for nine years," he boasted.
Gunny waved a lazy finger at me. "Shit, this boy has been reloading longer than that. So what's your point?"
One day, for reasons he kept under his gray high-and-tight, he decided that we should go to his favorite camping site. I suspected he just needed someone to drive.
My parents gave their permission and we spent four comfortable, quiet hours heading into the high California desert.
I steered us off an abandoned highway and onto a dirt road. We parked at a clearing sheltered by tall scrub.
By the time I pitched our tent, we didn't have time to do much but fry up something canned for dinner and hit the sack.
I reached up to turn off our lantern. In the fading light, I saw a network of glossy scars covering Gunny's back.
In the morning, we fried up another can of something for breakfast and started our day together.
Gunny dropped the tailgate of his pickup and pulled out a soft-sided rifle case. Unzipping the case, he lifted out a rifle, removed the bolt, and handed me the weapon.
"I hear that you're hot shit with a rifle."
I could only mumble noncommittally as I examined a worn but well maintained 1903 Springfield.
"See the boulder on that hillside? At about four o'clock down from the peak? Got a seam in it like the crack of your ass? How far away do you think that is?"
"I dunno. 400, maybe 450 yards?"
"Huh. Well, let's see you hit it."
I checked the bore for any fluff from the case. I set the rear sight to "450", inserted the bolt, and filled the magazine with a stripper clip. I closed the bolt and shouldered the rifle. I didn't feel nervous. I slowly let out a breath and concentrated on my sight picture, balancing that ass crack on the front post. I hadn't dry fired the rifle, so the shot came as a bit of a surprise.
Still, I saw a ring of rock dust puff from the center of the boulder and heard a satisfying *smack* an instant later.
I looked at Gunny with what I'm sure was a stupid smile.
"Hit it again," he growled.
Breathe. Balance the ass crack. *boom* puff *smack*
"Jumpin' Jesus and Mary's holy quim, there's hope for you yet."
I felt about 10 feet tall.
Pakeha