guns and garland

when i was ten
i wanted a red ryder bb gun
for x'mas,
just like ralphy.
i wasn't a boy
who liked guns
necessarily
but something about that red ryder
appealed to me
in a way i can't explain.
i was a careful
ten year old--
i wasn't too worried
about poking my eye out, kid.
and my mom
usually let me do
whatever i wanted anyway.

my mom's boyfrend
at the time
was jim.
jim had beady black eyes
a thin mustache sharp as a blade
and wore a camouflage hat
all the time.

jim was obsessed

with picking lint off the floor
and being angry all the time.
he enjoyed yelling
and making threats
with his belt,
which twice daily tore through his belt loops
with the sound of thunder.
but even more than lint and fury,
jim was obsessed with war;
jim liked ww2
the way i liked the yankees.

jim had grenades in our attic
bayonets in our attic
rocket launchers in our attic

jim had mannequins in our attic.
mannequins of nazis
dressed in nazi uniforms.

in our attic.

vintage from head to toe:
from socks to underwear
to helmets and rifles.
all gear once stolen
off the backs of dead men.

in our attic.

so guns were around
and i wanted a gun.

which i got one x'mas.
i can't remember anything else
about that particular year
as far as what i awoke to
under our glimmering artificial tree
but i did get that bb gun.
it came in a long box
and with it
5 or 6
packages of bbs.

i hugged a gun that x'mas morning,
just as jesus would have wanted me to on his birthday.

that day, and for the next week
after that
i prowled my grandmother's yard
and filled her with worry while
i tucked that well-oiled stock
into the crook of my arm and
sighted down the blue-steel barrel and
shot at tin cans
and a dying pear tree
and a weary garage with busted-out windows.
my friend jason came over
and we took turns
standing out there in the snow.
i still liked my books and drawing pad and ron guidry model baseball glove
better,
but i can't lie,
i loved my new red ryder bb gun.

right after new years
i came home from school one day
to find our apartment
had been broken into.
there was a tv missing
and some other stuff
that i don't recall because
i was ten.
besides, i was too upset about my own loss:
my red ryder bb gun had been taken,
stolen out from under our glimmering artificial tree.

i never liked that gun anyway,
i told myself.
it never felt as though it were mine
the way i felt about books
drawing pads
and my ron guidry model baseball glove.
shiny toys weren't real
the way paper and pencils were.

that whole saying about
if it's too good to be true?
i should have known better;
in fact i did.

later, years later,
my mother admitted to me
that right from the beginning
she was sure jim
had broken in and stolen
our tv
and the other stuff i don't
recall 'cause i was ten,
and my red ryder bb gun.
i didn't ask her why.
there was no real answer why
or else we might have known why
he picked lint
off the floor
and threatened us with his belt
and called me and my sisters
awful names
and once got caught
stealing ivory soap from a supermarket.

jim gave me a red rdyder bb gun for x'mas.
jim stole it from me by mlk day.

i hated that motherfucker;
my mom married him the following year.

sad as i was to have stolen by my to-be dad
our tv
and some other stuff i don't recall
'cause i was ten
and my red ryder bb gun
on x'mas day
this turned out to not even be
our worst x'mas with jim.

jim saved the best for last.

jim, if you're out there,
i hope you have a miserable holiday season.
you asshole.