—SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT

                                                      Soup

         It’s not the only thing she possesses, this crust of bread in her hand, but it feels as if it is.  The girl holds it like an apple or a snow globe needing to be shaken, like a magic cue ball filled with inky black liquid ready to grant blunt answers to your questions.  She scrunches the bread and watches crumbs sprinkle her shoes with a dozen tawny-colored freckles.  Her mother asks what’s wrong with her, is she nuts?  Her mother thinks she is, and her mother might be right.

         The girl is dizzy and confused most of the time.

         She has no name or she takes the name they give her if they want her to have one.  She has been Amy, Mandy, Little Sue, Big Red, Tokyo Rose, Momma, Mrs. Schweitzer, Beth.

         The girl has exactly two mix-and-match outfits, but she has clean underwear: white with red lace and different sized lady bugs.  She hates that pair because the insects sometimes come to life and crawl around her private parts and when she scratches she gets screamed at and made fun of or called crazy.

         Yes, now that she thinks of it, the girl is certain that she is insane.

The girl is thin, bony.  She can count her ribs without stretching or sucking in her belly because she has no belly.

“All this talk of food is overrated,” her mother says.  “Same as television.  Same as Obama.”

The girl’s favorite part about this is watching the cars go by, imagining what the automobiles smell like inside, what the people are discussing and thinking, the song on the radio, or maybe it’s a smart person talking about wars overseas.  The inside of a car is like being inside a hut, a tent.  You can tell secrets there, or ghost stories.  You can snore if you want to because it’ll only be the bears that hear.

Usually there are three men a day.  On occasion there are three at once.  One time there was a line stretching around the alley and the girl did what she had to do but while she did it she looked at the column of paying customers, their faces eaten away by shame, their steaming eyes and sweaty mouths the only signal they were alive.  The scene reminded her of a photograph she’d seen from olden days when it was in fashion to dress formal and wear hats, and in the picture she recalls that most of these men were looking for employment but some were merely seeking soup, sustenance, something warm to fill their bellies.

She is slender and skinny.  She wonders: If I can get thin enough, can I be soup?

There is no business to be had on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, so they go to see her mother’s boyfriend, James who works at the store called Video & Pawn.  She has to wait outside.  She doesn’t mind.  The air stinks of fresh vomit and baby diapers but it smells worse in Video & Pawn.

The girl looks at the sky.  It’s as gray as a donkey, yet one disintegrating cloud limps along.  She fixes it in her mind, adds a few appendages, and then the cloud becomes a kangaroo and it bounces away from here, on its way back to Australia or perhaps heaven.

Inside the store a television show plays.  The actress is her age only she’s beautiful, so gorgeous and clean, with berry-colored lipstick and shimmering skin.  But the actress wags her finger the same way the girl’s mother does.  The actress’s mouth moves so quickly the girl thinks it must be a trick or fast motion.  The actress has had it.  She’s fed up.  Her boyfriend isn’t good enough for her.  She deserves better.

The girl hears all this or imagines she does.

The actress slaps the boy and shoves him down on the couch and runs out the door, slamming it so hard the screen shakes.

The boy actor starts to cry.

The girl has never seen a male person cry.

She leans forward, and even though the glass is smudged and dusted with dirt and grime, she closes her eyes and presses her lips to the glass.  She holds steady and strong.  Men have put their lips on hers before, but until now she’s never really been kissed.

 —I WANNA NEW DRUG

  

…Good morning, Midnight. Goodbye, Thursday, thank God.

 

…Well, it’s been a whole week and I somehow survived yet another Draft Day. That’s Sunday Lease above, an incredibly sweet woman who recently suffered a stroke. Her husband, Mike, began the fantasy league almost 50 years ago and sadly, he passed away seven years prior. We’re all still soldiering on, if that’s what you call it, on his behalf.

 

…Actually, how patient am I supposed to be?

 

…“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” I sure hope that’s true.

 

…The good news is I never have to buy another piece of clothing as long as I live.

 

…This time feels like forever.

 

...It feels better feeling lighter.

 

…I’m not sure why I care more about a 70-calorie pudding versus a 120-calorie pudding, yet I do.

 

…Everything feels like a contest that I’m not participating in.

 

...24 hours in a day. No more. No less. Or so I’ve been told.

 

…It’s pretty incredible, remarkable really, to have a friend like that, after all this time. And damn, I do feel lucky.

 

…There’s something to be said for those who expect nothing yet seem somehow happier than the rest of us.

 

…It’s a luxury and a sin to waste time, yet I do it all the time.

 

…If someone close to you makes you second-guess yourself every time, well, maybe that’s an answer you haven’t been looking for or can’t see.

 

…When you get an email with the subject line reading “Epic Fail,” well, you pay close attention and maybe even say a prayer or two.

 

…“The Smiths” are like that friend you care about but aren’t sure if you want to take it further. 

 

…Everybody’s misunderstood by somebody else, but you took it to another level.

 

…“Fall Risk” would actually make a good band name.

 

…In my heart there’s a holy ghost writhing on the floor from an overdose.  

 

…The times I should have known better are endless.

 

…“There’s millions of people who say how I should be.”

 

…I guess I didn’t want to hear what I didn’t want to hear.

 

…What do six books mean? I’m so grateful, but that’s what I’m trying to figure out.

 

…Apparently there is nothing new under the sun.

 

…If I could eavesdrop on everyone without them knowing it, I surely would, though I don’t think I’d want to hear smack-talk about myself. I know it happens, but it might change how I feel about someone who’s supposed to be close to me, have my back.

 

…Starting from scratch sounds pretty simple, but it’s anything but that.

 

…Maybe I was trying to make you think, or else make myself think.

 

…“Nice guys finish last.” I’m afraid that may be all but true. 

 

…“I wanted to remember what I could bear to remember and convince myself it was all there.” Sarah Manguso

 

…“I want to live forever, and watch you dancing in the air…”

 

…I wonder what other people need, and if it’s enough.

 

…I could be a voyeur my whole life and be happy. I’m just so curious about other people’s lives.

 

…Too much of everything is a privileged and strange problem to have, but it’s a problem nonetheless.

 

…When someone says they don’t care is why you should pull up your trousers and pay better attention.

 

…“Who cares?” Isn’t that it? But maybe it’s not.

 

…Therapy is there for a reason.

 

...If you can’t tell your therapist, there’s your issue.

 

…I hope I’m enough, and you agree.

 

…You figure so much stuff out by yourself, it’s no wonder you don’t think you can’t make sense of it all that way.

 

…And the lies and make-believe, the very things that one day leave.

 

…“What’s a best friend?” That’s something I’ve asked myself a lot lately.

 

…What hurts, what’s frustrating and confusing, is when you don’t know the best way to help.

 

…A guy who shoots a deer dead for sport—I don’t think I can look at that guy without a boatload of judgment on my behalf.

 

…Did I mention that deer are my second favorite animal? 

 

…If you listen, but never hold on, what’s the point?

 

…Strike one and strike two, I guess we’re both out.

 

…I wish I knew the guy that had 250 pieces published in one year a long time ago. I think we might have some things to talk about.

 

…I think I could be good at that, if you’d just show me what it means and what you want.

 

…“Why won’t you give up this imaginary problem?... Sarah Manguso

 

…Maybe it’s better this way for us.

 

…It’s not as easy as people think.

 

…Honesty is easier said than done.

 

…If we put it all into context, no one would believe it.

 

…Sometimes it’s an impossible choice.

 

…Just being honest doesn’t always get you into the club.

 

...That was a pretty steady beat, but you didn’t even notice.

 

…You can’t make sense of what you don’t understand, but it can still make you feel something.

 

…I can honestly say I’m not sure what I have to offer.

 

…“Who Cares?” What a great album, and great question.

 

…It’s funny, the little things that make you miss a person.

 

“It was a failure of imagination that kept making me leave people.  All I could see in the world were beginnings and endings: moments to survive, record, and, once recorded, safely forget.” Sarah Manguso

 

…“I knew I was getting somewhere when I began losing interest in the beginning and ends of things.” Sarah Manguso

 

...A lot of times I think, “Who in the fuck built this house?” Then I think, “Oh, yeah that’s right.”

 

…It’s hard to stay sober. Really hard. I listen to myself now and I think I’m the last person I’d like to be listening to.

 

…I went for a morning walk, my ritual now, and saw a deer chomping away on some plants. She looked at me like she knew me. We had a short discussion, then I walked on by and she keep eating. I wondered what she made of that.

 

…About their birthday, after I asked them how it was, they said, “I was just feeling grateful to be alive.” That sounds really trite, but what a statement.

 

…A lot of people just want to have fun, and I don’t negate that. I just want to feel something, and if it’s fun or not, or if it’s a shock, I’ll bear it if I can.

 

…I keep reminding people that this is my space. Convoluted or not, it’s me in the raw, and you can’t change it. 

 

…All my memories, packed away so no one can ever find them.

 

…Am I a better person that way, funnier, more likeable? Probably. And that sucks a lot.

 

…I wonder what the world would be like if everyone told the truth all of the time.

 

…I wonder what the world would look like if everyone took John’s advice to me: “For 60 seconds, twice a day, tell someone how important they are to you, and why.”

 

…And, yeah, not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.

 

…There are two ways this story can go and you get to pick which one.

 

…“Say something?”

 

…There we go. Good job.

 

…Maybe I’m the new Truman Capote.

 

...Patience is something I’ve never been able to grasp, but I get the idea of it.

 

…Maybe we could try this again. What do you think?

 

…Stay Golden.

 

—IF I TREATED YOU MEAN, I DIDN’T REALLY MEAN TO

 

Show Me a Hero

 

A teenager on the bus in the aisle seat next to me has a jackknife that he keeps flicking open and closed, open and closed, like a heartbeat or tinny metronome and my pulse has picked up since he started this.  I don’t want to stare so I steal peripheral glances.  The blade is five inches long with a sharp tip.  No other passengers seem to notice.  They all wear ear buds and are busy tapping on their phones.

I read in the news last week that in the Middle East there are posters on telephone poles with the title HOW TO STAB A JEW and then instructions below it.  I’m not Jewish, but I sort of look like I could be, and I wonder if this guy has read the same article.  I can’t really see his expression unless I look at him full on and I’m not about to do that as he may think I’m taunting him.

I consider getting up and reporting him to the bus driver but that could get me stabbed in the leg or back.  I’m not paranoid, but hey, this kid has a switchblade.  I’m not paranoid but I’ve been called a coward before by all kinds of people—my boss, my dad, my wife when she left me.  It doesn’t seem to me that I’ve had a lot of chances in life to be a hero and I don’t really know what a hero is anyway.  LeBron James is supposedly a hero.  A lot of people claim Kayne West is their hero, Kim Kardashian and Bernie Sanders, too.

But I get it; this is a chance to do something on the heroic level.  I could try to swipe the knife out the guy’s hand, ask him to put it away, take him down somehow, though that would be awkward given that we’re seated, and likely there would be blood spilled by one, if not both, of us.

I’m thinking all this when a young girl, maybe five or six, comes up the aisle from the back and stops.  “Is that a toy?” she asks.  

The teenager smiles.  He has a nice smile actually, authentic looking.  “Nah,” he says.

“Then why’re you playing with it?”

“I’m not anymore,” the teenager says, stashing the switchblade in his coat pocket.

At home that night I tell my new wife about what happened only I give her a different story where there was a struggle and I pinned the teenager on the ground while our fellow passengers cheered me on.  I tell her I held him there till the cops came and how the rowdy applause was like something out of an Itzhak Perlman concert.

I’ve never seen her so happy, not even the night I proposed.  

She says, “I knew it.”

I ask, “Knew what?”

She takes my hand, kisses my knuckles, and says, “Meet me in the bedroom.”

During our love-making I can’t help it but I keep thinking about people who may or may not be heroes.  It’s a quagmire of questionable candidates.  Five minutes in I’m flaccid.  That’s never happened to me before.

“It’s okay,” my wife says.  

“No, it’s not,” I say.

She rolls over, turns of the night stand light and tells me, “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”    

—IT’S ALMOST WORKING

   

                                              Crowded House

 

         I am his fat girlfriend.  He likes it that way, me fat and him trim and married.

         He meets me at the door and draws me inside his mouth before I’ve had the chance to check the hall for spies.  He wants me so bad today.  His cock is a scalded switchblade against my thigh.  His kisses are soupy.  He sniffs my hair and buries his nose in my ear and I feel the prettiest I have all week, since the last time I saw him.

         Afterward, we lay in bed and I blink and think, blink and think.  I wish I was a smoker, wish I was more inventive, taller, tan, thin, wise, less needy.

         When I say so out loud, he tells me that I am perfect.

         So, I let him do it again, the way he likes.  I know his wife won’t let him do that.  I make the noises he enjoys and after a moment I find a cadence and I take pleasure in the sounds, too.  He’s hairy and sweaty, like an angry wolf.  His drool hits me on the cheek and slides Super Glue slow onto the pillow I’m gnawing. 

         He tugs my belly for balance.  He squeals and claws my stretch marks, and when we’re done I can’t tell what is permanent or what are scratches, and for whatever reason this inability makes me feel lighter, forgiven.

         The bus boy brings our room service.  As he uncovers the stacks of silver domes I watch his eyes search the room for the rest of our party, thinking: must be family around somewhere, there’s food for ten here.

         I finish everything, his meatloaf, the garlic mashers, the brick-hard toast.  I dig my fingertip in the gluey mini marmalade jar and sweep the glass clear.

         He grins, pleased, and tousles my bed-head hair. 

         He talks over the television, the baseball scores and hockey and I dream of collisions, of bodies ramming against wall glass and bats breaking on impact, all this while food odors collide with the scent of sex and our sins shake hands and smile before stabbing each other in the back.

         When I wake, it’s black.  It’s hard to breathe, then impossible.  I croak and clutch the sheets and slam the side of the bed he’s supposed to be sleeping on, but then I remember he’s gone home to his family.

         I don’t want to die like this, abandoned and starving.  

         In my head I count backward from one hundred.  For just this moment I’d like to set aside blame.  

Ninety-three…ninety-two…

I want to tell him I’m not through loving him yet.  Then I hear a voice—Mother’s?  Dad’s?—educating me about fairness.

Eighty-seven…Eighty-six.

This place is big, they say, but fat girls aren’t supposed to be claustrophobic.

 

—WE STARTED A STORY WHOSE END MUST NOW WAIT

 

                                                See Through

 

         I loved the boy across the street whose blinds were always pulled, the boy with the rare affliction who could not come out during the day because the sun would set his skin on fire.

         Sight unseen, I made him into a perfect mate who would protect me from the scorn of school bullies, who would make me blush and giggle, question and reconsider.  I deconstructed the mystery that enamored others and it was in fact because I did not know him, had never even glimpsed him once, that the boy became who I molded him to be: an untarnished tin, an edgeless embrace, the perfect pudding kiss.

         From a distance of scorched lawns and chalk-marked pavement I loved him savage and strong, like a lioness.  I wrote him my young girl sentiments in sonnets.  I penned frail words dressed up as tuxedoed escorts, lifeguard observant, sometimes sharing secrets that left me as naked as an orchid.

         One brave day I selected a length of rhubarb toile and tied a bow across those pages and opened the door to deliver them to the boy’s mailbox.

The sun was a festering yawn, a white egg blister that I believed capable of making me hallucinate.

         “Mother?” I called.  “Why is there a moving van at the neighbors?”

         She pulled me inside.

         “But why?” I asked.

         “Poor thing,” she said.  “That poor family has been through so much.”

  

         Years later I thought I had dreamed it all--the boy with the one-in-a-billion disease, his sudden disappearance from my life, the ropy strength of love I’d felt.

         But I found a marker.

And on the way back from the trip that was meant to save us, you asked, “What’re we stopping for?”

         I mumbled my answer, and in keeping with our inevitability, you didn’t try to decipher.

         You thought it was just the grave of some Midwestern relative of mine.

“Want to come with?” I asked, but you said to go ahead and so I did, taking long slow stiff strides.

The sky showed mercy and the clouds wore hoods that day, in homage to the incompatible boy who battled the sun.  

When I knelt down, however, my eyes stung and I saw the egg shell flecks of broken off-sunlight.  Then I saw through the granite and the etchings and the weed grass and worms, the cool stones slumbering in musty darkness beneath the earth, and I saw not my soul mate but a version of my very own soul, buried and entrapped.

Back inside the car, you were listening to baseball.  You must have seen, but if you had you didn’t say.  We drove through clouds and sun.  We drove so far.

 

        —THAT’S JUST A PART OF IT

 

My Life in Black and White  

 

         Momma says she likes her coffee the same way she likes her men:  black, strong and steamy.  She says this with a cup of bourbon in her hand, when it’s just the two of us and the morning’s bleak and blue-streaked from all this Seattle rain.  Momma says things like that to be funny, because she doesn’t know how to make an eight-year-old laugh.

Before she leaves, Momma smokes two more cigarettes and does her lipstick and dumps her cup in the sink with the rest of the dishes.  She grabs her purse and says, “I gotta work late tonight,” even though I already know this.  Next she says, “Find something to do.”  She means go outside and play.  I tell her I’m fine and she says, “Ta hell,” and hikes up her boobs and bra so the lacy pink rises over her blouse.  Her skirt pulls around her thighs, her shoes are towers, and as she steps down the hall her heels clatter like a goat. 

I listen and wait.  Then I step up on the kitchen counter, open a cupboard, go through the shoebox of old letters and yellowed bill statements until I find it.  After I do, I step off carefully because there’s egg yolk on one side of the Formica and a spilled ash tray on the other.

I kneel down on the gold shag rug, a little spur of something blooming inside of me, and open the envelope.

         Here’s a picture of Douglas.  That thing he’s holding is actually a strip of hose.  He puts it against this curvy carafe and lights the thing on fire and sucks the flame through the hose until it makes smoke and then Momma will often sidle off the love seat and lightly punch his puffed-out cheeks and—Whoosh! —I’ll get smoldered and smothered and Momma will cackle and say, “But damn, don’t he look just like Puff the Magic Dragon when he do that?”

         This one’s Daddy.   The photograph has rippled edges and the face of the paper stock is cracked.  On the back it says Lou 12/25/196?  This was before he and Mother met up, probably before either Kennedy brother got shot.   I know it’s just a bus driver uniform that Daddy’s wearing but I used to pretend different, that he was an army officer.  I pictured him like that drill sergeant in “An Officer and a Gentleman,” barking orders, a person with power, in charge of others.  One thing I’ve learned is that a little bit of anger isn’t so bad.  It’s better than what I see, which is a lot of nothing going on, all Momma’s friends stoned to the wind, laying around like a pile of jacked-up mummies, stiff as store window mannequins.

         Great Grandma Faith came from the North Country where it was always frozen.  You can see that much here, in the way she’s pinching her lips all walnuty crinkled, her eyes black as jet.  Some say I got my imagination from Grandma Faith and since she died a century or so ago, I’ll have to take their word for it.  If you ask me, she looks mighty mean.

         This is my dog Doogan.  Some boys in our old neighborhood took up with the rock—that’s what Momma calls crack—and they made a firecracker necklace to tie around Doogan’s head.  He didn’t die from that but Doogan did go deaf and then that’s why he didn’t hear the cab that ran over him.  I miss him fierce but the place we’re in now don’t allow pets, so Momma says it’s just as well.

         I don’t get all these pictures of the same convertible and no people in it.  Must have been something special about it.  What I notice is how clean the streets around it are, how the stoops are clear of sleeping bodies and how, in one, a girl about my age is drawing a chalk flower.  Sometimes I’ll pretend she’s my best friend and I’ll give her beautiful names like Bethany or Alexandra.

         Here’s me, the only film picture in existence as far as I know.  What’s strange is I’ve never seen myself look like this before--pretty.  Not in mirrors or reflected glass.  Hey, but I realize a camera can be a darn good liar most of the time without even meaning to.  I’m an ugly runt.  I know what I am.  Still, something about the graininess of the photo makes me appear mysterious, or better yet, lucky.  Whoever took this Polaroid had the shakes because I’m a blur more than a living person.

         The last one in the envelope is Little Louis.  Double L, Momma always says when she refers to my brother.  He could have been the first President from the projects.  He would have been a famous poet or a singer or surgeon, Momma was sure of it.  As a sort of insurance policy, she read his palm when he took sick so young.  My Momma can be cruel but she’s a smart woman.  I ask her about Little Lou all the time. Sometimes she’ll tell me stories, some repeats, once in a grand while a fresh one.  But even a future president doesn’t accumulate a lot of stories before the age of five so mostly she’ll say for me to keep my mind on my own self.

         Tomorrow will begin year nine of my life.  The way I look at it, anything can happen.  It’s going to be Christmas in a week.  This time, same as the others, I asked for a camera.  I know how crazy that is and if I didn’t Momma is always there to remind me.  Her boyfriend, Lester, got me a plastic one that clicks when you punch the taking button.  He thought buying me that toy would get him special access into my underwear, but Lester’s a dumb ass.  If he tries anything, I’ll slice him frontwards and backwards.

         Right now I spend most of my afternoons here, climbed up over the back of the couch that’s butted up to the window.  We live in 9D on the sixth floor of this building. There’s a view of things.  Momma says I’m a strange kid cause where’s all my friends?  The deal is I don’t need any, don’t want any.  There’s stuff that goes on around here I’d rather not have anybody else know.

         Besides, I got plenty to do.  I got this window and that whole world outside it.  Some parts are repulsive, sure.  There’s dumpsters and people digging through them. Real cat fights where animals rip each other’s eyes out of the socket.  I seen a man beat up a girl.  I seen a lot of things.

         But no one and nothing’s perfect.  God filled the world with all kinds.  That’s what makes being a photographer so interesting.  Even what’s old can be new.  What’s ugly can be beautiful from a certain angle.   What’s dark, what’s absolutely, one hundred percent, hopelessly black can bear light. 

 

—I THOUGHT THE ONLY LONELY PLACE WAS ON THE MOON

 

                                         The Launcher

 

That summer we were bored or stoned when we could afford to be.  It was Barry’s brilliant notion to build the thing but I didn’t have any ideas of my own so I went with his, which was the start of our trouble.

         It looked like a homemade bazooka, made of plastic and duct tape, because that’s what it was, more or less.

         “Do these things have a name?” I asked.

         Barry said, “Hell if I know.  What’s it matter?”

         So we called it The Launcher and started off with spuds.  Barry’s mom had a twenty pound bag of them.  They looked like aborted infants, only solid and heavy.  They sailed into the sky, hung there for an astounding thirty seconds before landing in a violent splatter.  It felt like discounted murder without any of the consequences.

         When we ran out of potatoes we used every other vegetable we could find—tomatoes and squash, zucchini, cabbage.  We moved onto solids out of necessity.  First it was soda cans, then soda bottles.  The shattered glass sizzled, hissing at us like pissed off snakes.

         Looking back I suppose those potatoes were something of a gateway drug because we got over them real quick, yet their minor thrill left us wanting more, a different fix that might kick-start some sedentary neuron in our brains.

         We went to the pet store and bought two litters of mice.  I can still recall their furious scratching in the bag behind my car seat.  Their breathing was husky.  I found it fascinating that they never squeaked because in every mouse story I’d ever read there always seemed to be a lot of squeaking or squealing.

         Barry’s house was a dilapidated cabin that his grandfather had built a hundred years ago.  It leaned eastward, toward the rising sun, and from a certain angle you might have thought it had lost balance and was about to fall into the water.

         Chain Lake was no more than two blocks long and maybe one block wide on the other side.  I never thought we’d hit the guy’s house.  If I’d believed we could, if Barry had, we would have tried first thing.

         As it happened, the third mouse landed on the old geezer’s roof.  It surprised me how dull and empty the resonance of death could be—nothing but a thud and short skid sound.  It depressed and disappointed me.  I thought of my parents and wondered if they had gasped or screamed before that car hit them.   

         We shot two mice at a time.  I don’t know what I expected.  Perhaps I thought of my cartoon watching days and that they’d clasp their furry paws like a varmint couple desperate to enter the afterlife conjoined.  But they just flew apart and landed apart, two separate thud-and-skid noises.

         Uncle Rory says things happen.  It can be fate or it can be God’s busy.  When I broke his windshield with a bat he didn’t seem such a believer in fate.  Or the time I lit the drapes on fire and almost burned the house down.  His notion of fate was dropping me off at juvie and letting some other sucker adopt me.  When they arrest you they put your wrists in handcuffs.  Feels like glass cutting into your skin.  Feels like chains and you feel like a slave or the very criminal you were meant to be.  Ha, so maybe that is fate.

         Across the lake, the old man came out of the house around the time we were nearly finished.  Barry took off, dust vapors rising up where he had been.

         I watched the guy sight me with his rifle, heard him yell, “One more time.  Go ahead.  I ain’t afraid to shoot.”

         It felt like someone had given me a belated birthday present.  I loaded the launcher, pulled the makeshift trigger, puffed out my chest and waited.