"Nice, huh?" he says.
He's young, has black hair, gray eyes, kind of cute. I try not to look at him.
I stare instead at the gun.
"Yeah," I say, almost whispering. "It's, um, nice."
"Got enough power there to take down an elephant," he says, then adds with a twinkle in his eye: "If you need it."
The gun I'm holding is made I guess by two people because it's called Smith & Wesson. I wonder if that's like Dolce and Gabbana — a famous couture brand.
".357 Magnum," he says. "You get hollow-points and it's like a missile-launcher."
"Hollow-points?" I ask.
"Yeah, it's them rounds that ex…plode," he says.
I have to look at him again, try and figure out where he's coming from. He's got full, almost girlish lips. And he's got a gun on his belt. His right hand is tucked just above it. Everyone in this shop is wearing a gun. There's more armed protection here then in the biggest bank.
But I don't feel safe. I just want to take the thing home with me. I don't want to wait 15-days to pick it up. I don't want to come back here. And I don't want to think about this boy in front of me.
"So yeah…" he says, nodding his head, affirming himself. "Hollow-points are the way to go. Especially if you're going for a kill-shot."
He stops here, backs up, tries to cover what he just said:
"You know, like, if you were, say, out hunting."
But there's no taking back the word, "kill." I wonder if this boy knows. Can he sense something from me? Will he call 9-1-1 as soon as I've left the store? Or will he do everything he can to talk me out of it? Will he save my life? I am so tired.
"Okay," I say, raising the gun with both hands, because it is so heavy. I stare down its long, silvery barrel. "Nickel-plated" I think he said it was. "I'll take one hollow-point."
From the corner of my eye I see him run a hand through brushed back hair.
"One?" he says. "We don't sell 'em like that. You'll have to buy 'em by the box."
From behind him, he brings out a box of bullets, opens it up. There are so many and with their tips cored out — "hollow" like he said. They look pretty, so symmetrical and polished and with their brass and chrome colors. They remind me almost of lipstick containers shining under the lights of the department store. I reach out for one while lowering the gun with my other hand; its weight lengthens my arm, making me feel my shoulder.
But the boy pulls the pretty little things away from me.
"Whoa," he says. "One thing at a time. Why not dry fire the gun? See how you like it."
I wonder again: Does he know? Have I given myself away? And why am I dressed in my purple and white Spirit Squad outfit? I am so conscious of my high hemline, my bare kneecaps, my rolled-down socks, my sneakers with their purple stripes. When I first walked into this place it wasn't that heads turned, so much as eyes rolled: What does she want? Only this boy came up to me, asking me what I was looking for and how he could help. And now I so desperately want him to stop and to take my hand and walk me out of the store. But, even after swallowing, all I can manage to say is:
"What do you mean by 'dry fire?'"
"Pull the trigger," he says. "With the gun empty."
I start to raise the gun again, both hands gripped tight around the handle.
"Point it at the far wall please," he says, his voice sounding suddenly very professional.
I aim it toward where several paper targets have been tacked up, one of them is in the silhouette of a person. I guess a man. I draw the barrel up towards its "head." These are targets you can buy, but not shoot at in the store. It's like make-believe. Not too different from growing up and watching my little brother make the shape of a pistol with his forefinger and thumb and then charge through the house yelling: "Bang! Bang!" so many times that I could imagine the walls splintered by invisible bullets, the whole house ready to collapse. "Shut up, Danny!" I'd yell. "Shut the fuck up!" I was only twelve or thirteen then.
I start pulling the trigger and it's surprising how much effort is needed. I can see veins running like caterpillars across the tops of each hand. My arms are shaking. I'm worried my wrists will give out. The barrel has somehow grown, reached an impossible length — six inches may as well be a mile. How can a bullet travel through so much metal and still be effective? There are laws at work here that I simply don't understand.
Finally, the part he called the "hammer" edges all the way back and is released and I hear the loud click as it hits not a bullet but an empty slot. Yet, in my mind's eye, I can see the bright orange flash and the making of a large round hole. This is the "power" he talked about — enough to let you see the damage without actually making it.
I lower the gun, feeling exhausted, but also refreshed like after a hard day of practice, doing precision moves and jumps and yelling cheers.
With my muscles vibrating, I tell him, "I love it. Can I pay with a credit card?"
"You got it, babe," he says, smiling, looking beautiful.
But the thought of thanking him is completely repellent to me.
Joseph Kim took his first hesitant step into writing while in high school. He has since found the journey to be outrageous, impossible, cathartic, ridiculous, infuriating, amazing and even, sometimes, wonderful. "But most of all," he says, "you gotta have a sense of humor or you'll go crazy." More of his flash fiction can be found in the archives of: http://www.defenestrationmag.net/. He also has a not-for-the-squeamish tale about seal hunting on: http:// www.storyglossia.com/24/jk_seal.html.