dead out of picture.”
“It’s a piece of paper.”
“Shut up. Six shots, fast.” I fire, fire, fire, the loud pops bouncing off clean tile. I give the target a look: one hit, bottom left corner of the paper.
“John,” he calls and I look. Shaking his head he says, “If you don’t think of this as fucking, you’ll never do it right.”
So I missed. I screwed up. So what? I couldn't hit the target silhouette, down there at the end, laughing without a hole in it. The pool filter churning on and on, bubbling out air that smells white, Daniel thinking I can’t do this. In a way the target is to blame. I shift and feel the guilt on me for missing.
Daniel starts talking about scopes, warning me of half-moon images that block the sight picture. He says, “Picture the bullets are your fingertips. All you want to do is push them into someone's skull and squeeze.”
I can't even listen to him. All I can think about is this fucking target, waiting down there for me to fuck up again, waiting to laugh at me as sterile air fills me, makes me slower, clears my eyes, my lungs going deep and deeper and deeper. I think of every woman I’ve been on top of and I picture they’re all this target, waiting to get it without a breath in them. Like my lungs: deflated.
“Good shot,” Daniel is saying when I realize he’s still talking. I look at him, struck dumb. “Your second shot,” he says, “Much better.”
“I haven’t fired a second one."
“No?” He points at the target. Suddenly it has a round hole in it an inch from center. “You're a fast learner. Good thing, or I'd kick you out. Tomorrow we’ll add a target over there, at the other side of the pool, and you’ll alternate. Two shots here, one there. One here, three there, like that. Then you’ll start with the gun laying on the table and you'll grab it and shoot, quick draw-style. Then we’ll add more tables. More targets. Closer targets, until you can shoot in any situation.”
"Thanks for helping me," I lie.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a game plan for you. Keep that up,” he nods to my hit, “and you’ll be going on missions by the end of the week.”
More than anything I need to be in his good graces. He could be my bodyguard and my dealer, all rolled up in one, pot-bellied package.
Pig Skin I & II
I.
Forking food over monitors I cramp up, chilled over. Ten across five down, gray light boxes lay out the hotel: beds and night stands seen unused through open doors, piles of ash swept into corners, front desk unmanned, kitchen unused, pool unoccupied and hallways unrun with kids; no parents to follow behind and say “Wait” when card keys hide in this pocket or that, no wait staff to wheel up with cheeseburgers and seltzer water with fuck you breaths and sudden smiles when doors open. The weight that thinned these carpets to a shine is now blowing as ash-wind up streets or flopping whole and broken down them.
He says, “Why are you so sweaty?”
“Allergies. What’s the checklist?”
“Door checks are complete." Portioned ham cubes and rice in his mouth, television in his eyes. “I scheduled generator maintenance for tomorrow. It’s a few days early but I don’t like the smell of it lately." I watch his big teeth working and I try to break their code. “I found a hair in the pool filter last night,” he says. “Looks pubic. Know anything about that?”
“I could fill a book with what I know about pubic hair.”
He looks at me, thread-veins rooted in his eyeballs. “I’m telling you because either that hair belongs to someone dead, or it belongs to someone dead.”
“Batteries,” I jump. “Have you checked the batteries in the flashlights?”
His eyes back to the monitors. “Of course. All the years are at least three years away.”
“Oh, never trust those.”
A freezing up. “No?”
My head, my heart working. “Those dates are useless. Batteries have chemicals which break down differently
“It’s a piece of paper.”
“Shut up. Six shots, fast.” I fire, fire, fire, the loud pops bouncing off clean tile. I give the target a look: one hit, bottom left corner of the paper.
“John,” he calls and I look. Shaking his head he says, “If you don’t think of this as fucking, you’ll never do it right.”
So I missed. I screwed up. So what? I couldn't hit the target silhouette, down there at the end, laughing without a hole in it. The pool filter churning on and on, bubbling out air that smells white, Daniel thinking I can’t do this. In a way the target is to blame. I shift and feel the guilt on me for missing.
Daniel starts talking about scopes, warning me of half-moon images that block the sight picture. He says, “Picture the bullets are your fingertips. All you want to do is push them into someone's skull and squeeze.”
I can't even listen to him. All I can think about is this fucking target, waiting down there for me to fuck up again, waiting to laugh at me as sterile air fills me, makes me slower, clears my eyes, my lungs going deep and deeper and deeper. I think of every woman I’ve been on top of and I picture they’re all this target, waiting to get it without a breath in them. Like my lungs: deflated.
“Good shot,” Daniel is saying when I realize he’s still talking. I look at him, struck dumb. “Your second shot,” he says, “Much better.”
“I haven’t fired a second one."
“No?” He points at the target. Suddenly it has a round hole in it an inch from center. “You're a fast learner. Good thing, or I'd kick you out. Tomorrow we’ll add a target over there, at the other side of the pool, and you’ll alternate. Two shots here, one there. One here, three there, like that. Then you’ll start with the gun laying on the table and you'll grab it and shoot, quick draw-style. Then we’ll add more tables. More targets. Closer targets, until you can shoot in any situation.”
"Thanks for helping me," I lie.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a game plan for you. Keep that up,” he nods to my hit, “and you’ll be going on missions by the end of the week.”
More than anything I need to be in his good graces. He could be my bodyguard and my dealer, all rolled up in one, pot-bellied package.
Pig Skin I & II
I.
Forking food over monitors I cramp up, chilled over. Ten across five down, gray light boxes lay out the hotel: beds and night stands seen unused through open doors, piles of ash swept into corners, front desk unmanned, kitchen unused, pool unoccupied and hallways unrun with kids; no parents to follow behind and say “Wait” when card keys hide in this pocket or that, no wait staff to wheel up with cheeseburgers and seltzer water with fuck you breaths and sudden smiles when doors open. The weight that thinned these carpets to a shine is now blowing as ash-wind up streets or flopping whole and broken down them.
He says, “Why are you so sweaty?”
“Allergies. What’s the checklist?”
“Door checks are complete." Portioned ham cubes and rice in his mouth, television in his eyes. “I scheduled generator maintenance for tomorrow. It’s a few days early but I don’t like the smell of it lately." I watch his big teeth working and I try to break their code. “I found a hair in the pool filter last night,” he says. “Looks pubic. Know anything about that?”
“I could fill a book with what I know about pubic hair.”
He looks at me, thread-veins rooted in his eyeballs. “I’m telling you because either that hair belongs to someone dead, or it belongs to someone dead.”
“Batteries,” I jump. “Have you checked the batteries in the flashlights?”
His eyes back to the monitors. “Of course. All the years are at least three years away.”
“Oh, never trust those.”
A freezing up. “No?”
My head, my heart working. “Those dates are useless. Batteries have chemicals which break down differently
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