Page 53 - Demo

“I am, Sid! Nothing’s happening! The kid isn’t paying attention!”
“Hey, kid!” the other man yelled. “You nappin’ down there?”
Sonny shouted to them to hold their fire and ascend- ed from the dim trap house into the Saturday sun- shine, squinting and holding his bleeding hand.
Impatiently, Sid asked: “What is it?”
Sonny walked through scattered brush cluttered with thousands of pieces of dead clay pigeons.
“What happened to your hand?” the lady asked.
“Why don’t you take up skydiving or something?” Sonny said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sid said.
Ignoring them, Sonny went to the faucet by a home- made cinder block barbecue and washed his hand. Mr. Lindsay, the owner of the range, came over from his trailer, where he liked to sit and smoke in a cam- mie lawn chair, cleaning his shotguns, reading Trap & Field magazine and keeping an eye on his cash box.
“Gotta be quick when a woman’s got the trigger, boy—I told you that the first day. Somethin’ about it—they’re just impatient and can’t wait for the shooter. Get in their own rhythm, you know, a rhythm all their own, boy—I told you.”
Sonny wanted to tell this old man with half a right jaw, shattered by the butt of a 12-gauge pump- action shotgun, making his face look like a deflated balloon, that it had happened before with men on the trigger, too, not just women. But he knew Mr. Lindsay would have some comeback, some critical remark, and some piece of advice for him, Sonny
being just fifteen.
After all, Mr. Lindsay was over sixty, so who knew more about trap shooting and women? “And don’t be such a smart ass to everybody. I want them comin’ back. Don’t be smart-assin’ my customers, hear me?”
Sid called to Mr. Lindsay, “Can we finish before we lose the light?”
“Get back down there, now,” Mr. Lindsay said. “We get paid by the pigeon. Throw some pigeons out there. Go on, throw some pigeons out there. We get paid by the pigeon.”
Sonny retreated to the trap house. There were five pigeons left to Sid’s round and he shot all five. Through the crack, Sonny watched the Eddie Bauer shooter slap money into Sid’s outstretched hand.
“Okay, Rhonda,” Sid said, “you’re up, babe.”
Rhonda took Sid’s shotgun, handling it like a broom. The other man took the score chart and trap trigger.
Sonny loaded the arm and waited and listened.
“Okay, babe,” Sid began, “all you have to do is put the butt right there on your shoulder, pull it tight—it’s gonna kick now—then look down the rib—that’s that strip of metal running down the barrel there—and get that red sight lined up so it looks like it’s just float- ing out there. Aim at the top of the trap house roof and call ‘pull’ when you’re ready. When you see the pi- geon, keep it in the sight, lead it just a smidgen. Rotate your body—yeah, like that—at the waist, yeah—as you follow it. Then squeeze the trigger.”
“That’s a lot to remember,” she said.
For a jello brain like you, Sonny thought.
“Pull!” she said.
The pigeon floated out towards the hills. Rising, rising, floating, and then dropping, down, down, down . . . .
The pigeon had come straight out of the house, and if she waited too long as it fell, Sonny would be in the line of her fire. Sonny yelled “Shoot!”
Only after the pigeon fell below the trap house roof did she finally pull the trigger. The shot blasted through the crack and peppered the back of Sonny’s head. Rubbing his head, feeling for breaks in the scalp, he heard the men laughing.
(continued on next page)
46