Evan (masked) and the Supra
I was just running through Laura's archives when something she said set off a memory in my head.
I have a friend named Evan. He's a very unusual sort of guy, very artistic and very much to-himself. One day Evan called me on the phone and said "I found a gun. I think it must have been my dad's."
Evan's dad died when he was 12. I don't care what the man-hating feminists say about the unimportance of fathers. This affected Evan more than any other event in his entire life. He hasn't smiled a big broad smile since that day. If you knew him you'd know what I'm talking about. He just doesn't really smile, even when he wants to.
The biggest challenge of my college life was to make Evan laugh. Any time I could get Evan to laugh I knew I had accomplished a major victory. Evan used to say "everyone thinks they're so funny. Nobody is funny. Well, nobody except my friend D Bryan. He's the only person who is really funny." This was like dropping a gauntlet to me.
D Bryan (masked) and Evan (masked)
Evan's mom remarried while Evan was in college and moved into her new husband's very nice house. She gave her house to Evan since he was living there while going to college.
So on this particular day Evan was rummaging around in the house and found a gun in a shoebox.
"How do I tell if it's loaded?" he asked me over the phone.
"Well, is it a revolver or a semiautomatic?" I inquired through my massive 1940s Bell Corporation Bakelite telephone.
"I don't know. What's the difference?"
Are you serious? Oh my God, this is going to be harder than I thought.
"Evan, is it flat and rectangular with a clip or does it have a round cylinder?" I asked him as patiently as I could.
"I don't know."
"Maybe you should bring it over and I'll take a look at it," I finally suggested.
Evan jumped into his Toyota Supra and zipped over to my house with his father's old gun. I saw him walking up the driveway with the gun in his hand, holding it up like a cop about to draw down on someone. If you knew Evan you would know how hilarious this is. People say I have a very serious face. Dorky, but serious. Evan has the most serious face of anyone I ever knew. Even when he laughs he looks extremely serious.
So here he comes, walking up my parents' very long driveway in the middle of our neighborhood holding up a big black gun with this extremely serious face of his, like a man on a mission.
I imagined all of my middle-class, middle-aged neighbors peeking out their windows and screaming, "Dial 911, quick! Someone is about to get shot over at the Joneses!"
"Ding dong" Evan rings the bell and I open the door.
Just as soon as I had the door open far enough to get an arm through, Evan puts the gun, barrel first, into my chest and says, "Here."
Here indeed.
This is the gun:
Gun (not masked)
I leaped back, removing the gun from my chest as I jumped. I started to complain and then realized that Evan just really had no clue what he had just done or why I might be upset about it.
I turned the gun around so it wasn't aiming into my heart anymore and pulled out the clip. Fully loaded.
I pulled back the slide.
"Pop" out comes a .45 slug.
It was loaded and with one in the chamber, ready to fire.
"Jesus man, you stuck this in my chest with ... nevermind."
I took a breath and said, "why yes, indeed it is loaded."
I convinced Evan to let me unload the clip, which must have been holding those bullets for the past 12 years, and we put all the bullets in the shoebox he had found the gun found in. My dad looked the gun over, theorized that the spring in the clip was probably OK despite being compressed all those years, and then began to advise Evan on kits he could install into the gun to make it more modern and accurate. It was just an old mass production Army .45 and not anything special. To make it accurate it would need some upgrades. I didn't think Evan was really interested in all that, but he seemed to listen.
Years later, Evan still has the gun, has shot it quite a bit, and is apparently pretty good with it. And luckily he has never accidently shot anyone with it, perhaps in part thanks to me.
But he sure scared the crap out of me with it on that day.
I turned the gun around so it wasn't aiming into my heart anymore and pulled out the clip. Fully loaded.
I pulled back the slide.
"Pop" out comes a .45 slug.
It was loaded and with one in the chamber, ready to fire.
"Jesus man, you stuck this in my chest with ... nevermind."
I took a breath and said, "why yes, indeed it is loaded."
I convinced Evan to let me unload the clip, which must have been holding those bullets for the past 12 years, and we put all the bullets in the shoebox he had found the gun found in. My dad looked the gun over, theorized that the spring in the clip was probably OK despite being compressed all those years, and then began to advise Evan on kits he could install into the gun to make it more modern and accurate. It was just an old mass production Army .45 and not anything special. To make it accurate it would need some upgrades. I didn't think Evan was really interested in all that, but he seemed to listen.
Years later, Evan still has the gun, has shot it quite a bit, and is apparently pretty good with it. And luckily he has never accidently shot anyone with it, perhaps in part thanks to me.
But he sure scared the crap out of me with it on that day.
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