He wasn’t picky—anyone would do. His boss, Marge. His roommate, Evan. George, the homeless man who slept outside the church next to Artie’s apartment building. Yes, anyone would do.
“I would like to buy a gun,” Artie announced to the clerk at the gun store behind the gun counter.
The guy, who had his auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, turned the page of his Get Fuzzy Comics book. “You got a license?” he asked.
“No.”
“No license, no gun.”
Artie was nonplussed.
“I would like to buy a gun,” Artie announced to the clerk at the gun store behind the gun counter.
The guy turned the page of his Foxtrot Comics book. The ponytail reached half way down his back.
“You got a license?” he asked.
“Yes!” Artie took it out of his pocket and slapped it down onto the counter.
The clerk turned another page. “You want a handgun or a rifle?”
Artie blinked. “Do you recommend one or the other?”
“Not really.”
“Do you know someone who can?”
“No.”
“I would like a Glock 22 40Cal Fixed Sites 1-HC Mag handgun,” Artie said to the clerk at the gun store behind the gun counter. He shoved a picture under the guy’s nose and pointed. “This one.”
The clerk pushed the picture out of his face. He pointed with Marmaduke. “It’s right here.”
Artie peered through the glass. There it was, in all of its shiny black metal glory.
“Huh.” Artie scratched an itch on his nose. “Do you have anything bigger?” he asked.
“You want a rifle?”
“I don’t want a rifle.”
“You want a bigger handgun?”
Artie scratched his nose again. “Yes.”
The clerk pointed. Artie peered down. “That’s the same one.”
The clerk turned another page. “It’s a general point.”
“Oh.”
Artie surveyed the selection under the glass critically. There were black handguns, silver handguns, black-and-silver handguns. There were handguns with long barrels, handguns with short barrels, handguns that bore a strong similarity to his great-uncle Fred’s nose.
“Erm…” Artie looked up at the clerk. He looked back at the guns. “What do you recommend?”
“To do what?”
“Erm…” Artie scratched his nose for the third time. He scrunched it up experimentally. No, he didn’t need to sneeze. “What do you mean?”
“What do you want to do with the gun?” The clerk asked.
“Shoot people?”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Want to shoot people.”
“Well…yes, that’s what I said.”
“You said it like a question, so I wasn’t sure.”
“Oh. Then…shoot people.”
The clerk turned a page. “How?” he asked.
Artie stopped mid-scratch. “How what?”
“How do you want to shoot people?”
“With a gun?”
The clerk turned another page. “You want to maim them? Paralyze them? Take off a limb? Or do you want fatalities?”
Artie looked down at the array of weaponry before him. He looked back at the cover of Marmaduke currently in front of the clerk’s face.
“Fatalities?” Artie said.
“You sure?”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure.”
“You said it like a question again.”
“Oh…fatalities.”
Without looking out from behind his Comics, the clerk took out a key and opened the case. He reached in and pulled out a handgun and handed it to Artie.
Artie was bemused. He had never held a gun before. He ran his finger lightly over the trigger. He tossed it from hand to hand. He aimed it, imitating Jerry Orbach from Law and Order. Jerry Orbach was dead now, but Artie figured he was safe, since Orbach hadn’t died in a gunfight.
“You want me to ring you up?” The clerk asked.
Artie paused mid-curl. The gun was almost the same size as the hand weights he used at the gym. “Um…how much is it?”
The clerk turned a page and named the price. Artie was deeply shocked.
“That much?” he asked.
The clerk didn’t reply. Artie heard a soft chuckle emit from behind the Comics. He assumed Marmaduke had done something funny.
“The second amendment,” he muttered to himself.
“What?”
“I have a right to bear arms,” Artie said to the clerk. “You’d think, it being a right and all, guns would be free.”
“There’s always a heavy vase,” the clerk said.
This, while true, had not occurred to Artie.
“I think...” Artie said, “…I like guns.”
“You gonna take it?”
“Yes…are there special bullets that go with it?”
“Bullets come separate.”
Artie bit the inside of his cheek, winced, tasted blood and gagged.
The clerk looked out from behind his book. “You okay?”
Artie coughed a few times, nodded, then coughed some more.
The clerk went back to his book. “I can give you head exploding bullets if you want.”
Artie thought about this as a few last weak coughs rattled through his throat.
“No thanks,” he said.
“Not a Tarantino fan?”
Artie cleared his throat. His mouth was still slightly salty.
“No I…I just want to…you know,” said Artie.
“No,” said the clerk. He pulled a box of bullets out from under the counter and pushed them at Artie.
Artie examined them. “Will these work?”
“Yes,” said the clerk.
“What if they don’t?” Artie asked.
“They will.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Return them within the month and get a full refund, or exchange for a higher quality product.”
Artie considered as the clerk, without waiting for permission, rung up the purchases. He took out his debit card as the clerk stated the total.
Artie sighed and handed over the card.
Five minutes later, carrying a plastic bag that bore the message, “Guns Don’t Kill People, People Kill People,” Artie left the store. The little bell over the door jingled on his way out.
Artie slammed the door. He took out the gun and aimed it at the blond head poking out from over the couch. “I have a gun,” he declared.
“Good for you,” Evan said, not taking his eyes off the television screen. Skinny women bounced around in sleek clothing, trying to sell hair-care product. “Do you think I should switch shampoos?” he asked.
Artie gritted his teeth. “I’m going to shoot someone,” he said.
“Good for you,” Evan said. He picked up the remote and turned the channel. Car commercial.
“I said to myself,” Artie said, “I’m going to shoot someone. And your name popped into my head second. And you were closest. So I am going to shoot you. Now.”
Click. Showtime. “You should have just popped off the first person you saw,” Evan said.
Artie gave up and adjusted his aim. “I’m going to shoot you.”
Click. HBO2.
Artie pulled the trigger.
“Safety,” Evan said.
“What?” Artie was busy looking at his gun.
“Did you take the safety off?”
“What’s the safety?”
“You take it off to shoot.”
“Oh…no.”
Click. Entertainment news show.
“Can you show me how to take it off?” Artie asked.
“Not right now,” Evan said. “I’m watching the news. Give me five.”
Artie considered and then walked over and sat next to Evan on the couch. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants and stared at the pretty blond talking on the television screen.
“Wow,” Artie said.
“Yep,” Evan said.
Artie checked his watch and then pushed open the swinging doors that led to Le Petit Chat’s kitchen. People in white uniforms ran around and chopped through the steam and the heat.
He walked up to the black haired woman on the right and then stopped.
“I’m going to shoot you,” Artie said.
“You’re fired,” Marge said.
Walking down his street, Artie saw George, as usual, slumped against the brick wall of the church. He checked his watch and then stopped in front of George, who mumbled something incoherent before settling back into a doze. Artie scratched his nose. George was Chinese or Cantonese or something. He had told Artie once; Artie remembered that. Artie squinted. It was hard to tell under the matted hair and dirt and the scarf that covered the bottom half of George’s face.
“George,” Artie said, “I’m going to shoot you.”
George shifted, mumbled, slept.
“I have a gun,” Artie said. The words floated, nebulous, in the cool evening air.
George stirred again and managed to half open his eyes. “Fuck off,” he muttered. “I’m trying to sleep.”
Artie considered this. “I can put you to sleep forever,” he said.
“You gotta five?” George asked.
Artie put his plastic bag down. It was stuffed with the items of the locker he’d cleaned out half an hour ago. He rummaged through his pockets. “No,” he said.
George mumbled something incoherent again and fell back asleep.
Artie scratched his nose and sat down on the sidewalk across from George. He took the gun out of the waistband of his pants and looked at it, caressing the trigger, the barrel. The safety. He scratched his nose. No sneeze.
“Here you go George,” Artie said.
George didn’t open his eyes. “Is it a five?”
“No,” Artie said.
“Fuck off,” sighed George and went back to sleep.
Artie stood at the edge of the subway platform, head turned in the direction of the incoming train. He squinted and leaned his upper body forward. He checked to see if his toes were still behind the wide yellow warning line. It was more of a block, he supposed, but still, he could call it a line too.
He checked his watch, looked around and squinted again. He heard a squeak and looked down to see a rat climbing over the tracks.
“A rat!” A woman in blue shrieked and clutched her husband. Out of the corner of his eye, Artie caught the flash of a camera. He blinked in reaction, thought better of it, blinked again.
He remembered his gun. It had been a good gun, not too big, not too small. And inconspicuous. Artie frowned and scratched his nose.
He sighed. He would miss his gun, truly, he would. Unconsciously he tilted his head in the direction of the breeze rushing through the subway tunnel. He stepped back a bit, almost bumping into a businessman reading the New York Times. Artie apologized. The businessman barely nodded before going back to the Arts section.
Artie scratched his nose and scrunched it up. He wished he would sneeze. Idly he watched the headlights of the train stretch onto the wall ahead of the first car.
“Oh honey, will the rat get out in time? I don’t want to see a rat killed!” Artie caught another flash out of the corner of his eye and was slightly irritated. It really was a waste of film and Artie, who had once held a job at a twenty-four hour photo booth, felt a deep sympathy for the clerk who would have to develop that roll of film.
He scratched his nose and saw the rat, with plenty of time, scamper out of the way and disappear into some shallow dark crevice. He squinted once more, trying to make out exactly where the rat had gone. He scratched his nose and scrunched it up again. No, he didn’t need to sneeze.
Artie sighed before he pushed the Times reading businessman onto the tracks.
Detective Stevenson stood, arms crossed, as he stared down at Artie.
“You didn’t know him?”
“No.”
“But you killed him?”
“Yes.”
The detective looked over at his partner, who shrugged. The fluorescent light caught the back of her blonde head, giving her an ugly green halo.
“Go process him,” she said.
The judge rapped his gavel sharply to quiet the court. “Mr. Smith,” he said, “The verdict has been read. You are guilty of murder in the first degree and are hereby sentenced to imprisonment at the state penitentiary, where you will await your execution.” The judge paused and looked at Artie. “Do you understand this?”
“Yes,” Artie said, and scratched his nose.
“Art.” Terry, one of the guards, opened his cell door. “It’s time.”
Artie looked up from the article he had been reading and put the paper down. He stood and allowed the guard to escort him out of the cell.
Jim, the other guard, closed the cell door and locked it before taking his place behind Artie. At Terry’s signal, the three started the slow walk down the hall.
“What’d you pick, Art?” Terry asked as they turned the first corner.
“Steak and potatoes and a slice of pie,” Artie said.
Terry nodded. “What kind of pie?”
“Cherry,” Artie said.
“Ah.” Terry steered Artie gently around the second corner. “I’ve always been more of an apple man myself.”
“I like blueberry,” Jim said from behind them.
“You’re an idiot, Jim,” said Terry.
“Shut up, Terry,” said Jim.
The two bickered amiably as Artie thought about the article he had read. A hero story, they had called it. It had been true enough. George had been in it. Artie scratched his nose.
The trio turned the last corner and came to the room. Terry guided Artie back a step to let Jim circle around to the front and unlock the door.
The door opened and Artie blinked as he saw the two people standing beside the bed. His felt Terry give him a nudge and he walked forward. He reached the bed and sat, scratching his nose all the while.
Terry and Jim pushed him down, and as Artie lay back he felt them pull the restraints over him. He winced as they buckled him in. The leather bit into his skin uncomfortably.
The priest started reading from the Bible and Artie caught the glint of the needle out of the corner of his eye. He went to scratch his nose and was annoyed when he realized he couldn’t.
The priest droned the psalm to a finish and peered down at Artie. “Any last words, son?” he asked.
Artie looked up at him. “George,” he said.
“What?” The priest looked confused. “George? Saint George?”
Artie opened his mouth and sneezed. Out of habit, he scrunched up his nose. He was mildly surprised.
“Saint George,” the priest said, and Artie felt the needle slide under his skin.
