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Order this writing in the collection book Unlocking the Mysteries available for only $1795 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Charles Whitman, I ain’t
Wednesday Lee Friday
There were only eighteen bullets. Six were already in the gun, and I had what you call “speed loaders” in my pocket. They’re actually quite ingenious, like a little tray that holds the bullets just right to go into the gun with a tiny twist. If anyone tries to tell you that speed loaders aren’t cute, you can be reasonably sure that they’ve never actually seen one.
I walked to the tallest place I could find that didn’t involve me climbing a ladder. I’m really not a fan of ladders, and lots of them aren’t very sturdy—especially around here. That basically meant that I had one gun, a fifty-seven magnum to be exact, to begin my shooting spree. It also meant that I would have to begin it from the tippy top of the women’s dorm.
I pulled out my pot pipe and took a few hits. Normally I prefer to smoke from a glass pipe than a wooden one. But these new dealies were very handy. You could pack them in advance and then use the swivel lid to keep everything in place until you need it. I know! Who would ever have thought potheads could master the concept of function meeting design? Like I always say, you can be stoned without being stupid. This particular toking device was designed to look like a lipstick. Normally a lipstick would be a typical and natural thing for a college age woman to carry. But I could not honestly tell you the last time I put lipstick on. Lipstick is very bad etiquette for pot smokers anyway. Nothing is more rude than leaving bright red schmutz all over someone’s beautifully executed jay. Speaking of beautiful, this pot was green and sticky and yummy yummy!
Goodness...who first? As if to validate this entire funny plan, the Football Jerk who made prank calls to me my freshman year walked right past the women’s dorm like cock of the walk. On his over muscled arm was a new sorority pledge he was no doubt trying to screw. She giggled and leaned against him as if he were the very personification of wit and charm.
I aimed and fired, surprised at how much the gun jerked backward in my hand. That guy from that party had been right all along; it was to big for a “little lady” like me. I’ve been fat my whole life, so it was natural to think that anyone calling me “little lady” was employing a biting sarcasm. When I’m done with this, I should probably apologize for being so rude to him...
The little Pledge Girl fell down and a morbid maroon rose budded and bloomed in the middle of her chest. A fantastic shot if I do say so...truly spectacular. More important than the aim though, I’d started what some people might say was a very serious thing. It wouldn’t be very long before someone would try to end it.
Even though I’d missed the Football Jerk, the amazing shot to the Pledge Girl bolstered my confidence. I fired three more times, this time holding the gun much tighter and keeping my arms much looser. I thought there was something to this, because it felt much more natural in my hands. I hit a tree, then a bench, then, finally that cock-sucking, prank-calling Football Jerk. I heard some screaming, then more, loud and nearly hysterical. People were starting to run around. It was a funny kind of running though, not toward the wounded girl, or for cover, or even away from the places where the bullets hit...just a frantic, random scurrying that seemed to lead them nowhere.
Finally, there were words shouted amongst all the screaming. Something that sounded like “Where is he?” or “Can anybody see the gunman?” Nobody had any idea who it was or where the party was coming from. I could probably just stop and leave and go back to my room. Nobody would even know so long as I didn’t leave prints on the gun or whatever. People got away with this sort of thing all the time.
I was just about to leave and have a nap when I saw the professor who accused me of copying out of a book. Can you imagine? Me! Just because I didn’t use any footnotes. Footnotes are stupid, and I shouldn’t have to prove that I actually read a book or didn’t copy out of it or anything. Don’t they trust us? If they don’t, this is probably not the right job for them. One shot takes him down perfectly, and I realize that I’m a much better shot when I let my hate do the aiming for me.
With that in mind, I only need one bullet to fell the casting director at the student theatre. She obviously has issues with fat people. She should’ve just admitted that instead of pretending I “didn’t have what it takes for such a demanding role.” She could have just admitted that she was under pressure to give those roles to theatre majors. She could have done a lot of things that didn’t involve destroying my confidence or making me look untalented or ugly. She had lots of choices; it didn’t have to be like this. I kept that thought firmly in mind as the Melodramatic Senior who played Duncan threw himself on her bloody body and cried. Always the performer, that one! I found myself unmoved by his portrayal of the-guy-who-gave-a fuck.
I suddenly remembered that the RA who got me busted for having weed in my room was out of town this weekend. As (her) luck would have it, she was spending time with her parents in Saginaw. Some people really must be surrounded by angels of good fortune. It wasn’t fair. Not at all.
“It’s her! She’s up there!!” I hear the screaming from below, and feel their accusing fingers jabbing me from two stories below. They shouldn’t be able to hurt me from down there—that was the whole point of this. But the sharp stabbing pains persist, and I sort of wish I’d smoked some more pot. I set the gun down because it feels very heavy. The bag is all the way on the other side of the roof, so I really have no choice but to load the gun again and walk over there. I probably could have planned this better, but oh well.
I waived in the direction of the accusing scream. It was an odd thing to say really, as if they all expected it was me or something. That couldn’t be the case; I’d done a really good job of keeping it a secret. I walked back to where I’d left the gun taking a few seconds to peer down over the edge of the building. There were a lot of people down there now; then times as many as when I fired the first shot. What the hell kind of people ran toward gunfire anyway? Seriously, these people deserved whatever they got.
I made sure they could see that I didn’t have the gun in my hand anymore. They needed to see that I was no kind of threat. I learned that by watching TV, and apparently it was very important in case I wanted to make sure they didn’t shoot me. I was fairly indifferent about it, honestly. My work here was pretty much done so far as I knew. The sun was bright and nice, but not too hot. My pipe still had a few hits in it, so I sat down on the ledge and smoked, dangling my legs over the side. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed. I should have come up to the roof a long time ago.
The screaming and running was still going on after what seemed like a very long time. Christ, what was the big fucking deal with these people? I didn’t hit anyone that was well-loved. Hell, most of these people weren’t even liked, but now everyone has to get all crazy and weepy and sad. Why can’t anyone just be fucking honest with themselves? She was. But now that she thought of it, it would probably be better if people in general didn’t start doing things like this. It could create any number of problems.
Now everyone would treat this like some grand human interest story. It’s just not that important. People died. So what? People die every day. When people are in torment, real pain I mean, nobody does anything about it. Nobody cares. Someone could have just as easily shot me on my way to class, but they didn’t. No one but ME had the guts to open serious fire on the coop full of idiots.
A couple of jerks on a tiny campus most people have never heard of go down—and people act like it’s the end of the fucking world. I wanted to tell them all that, but frankly I didn’t see the point. This sticky bud still tasted yummy yummy. I sat there smoking and swinging my feet, wondering what would happen next.
