A Day Less Ordinary

Disclaimer: All accounts in this story are true. The names have been changed to protect those responsible.

Most of our days are governed by normality. And as we take on more responsibilities, the more those days seem to run together. That's why it's when we are freed from our routine that we seem to learn the most. Indeed, it's those exceptional days that make us feel alive. I had one such day, when I was 16…

I had a premonition of things to come the night before: my manager at the local supermarket had told me to come in early the next morning. About 6:00 am. “And don’t wear your standard bagger’s uniform,” he said, “come in the grungiest set of pants and shoes you can find.” He didn’t offer an explanation as to what the change in apparel was for, but since this was my first job, and since the number of wretched store assignments reserved for baggers was practically limitless, I really didn’t want to know the answer.

When I arrived the following day at the scheduled time, my manager escorted me to the back of the dairy section. That’s where the trash chute attached to a tractor trailer. I was familiar with the chute. It was where we were supposed to dispose of the store’s non-perishable items. But in reality, it was a convenient way for the lackeys working in our meat and produce departments to rid themselves of their expired merchandise. The smell was unmistakable. Opening the door to that chute was like taking it nose first from a Limburger lover with acid reflex.

On this particular morning, however, my fate lay beyond the chute's opening: I had an appointment with the business end. Except that when I walked outside, the trailer wasn’t there anymore. It had been removed. (A new one had been ordered and would arrive in a few days.) Left in its wake was a large stream of smoldering waste that had pooled ankle-deep on the concrete. Rancid beef. Rotten lettuce. Beef blood intermixed with milk and other souring dairy products. To quote Owen Wilson, it was, without question, the “scariest environment imaginable.”

My task? To wade into the middle of that maggot-infested cesspool and begin shoveling it. It took all morning, even with the assistance of another bagger and his power washer that he had brought from home. By the time the sun reached topside, we were nearly finished, but it was mid-July, and we reeked so badly that no one wanted us to come back into the store. My manager, who had come out periodically to check our progress, handed me a bar of soap and told me to go home early.

It was just as well. I had already made plans for that afternoon. My friend Mutt had been bragging about his new nine-shot 12-gauge shotgun for a couple of weeks. My dad didn't really believe that such a weapon existed. And since we lived in the country, I told Mutt to bring it out to our property so we could try it out.

It was funny. Right before I left the grocery store, my friend from the deli stopped me and said that he had a bad feeling about my choice of activities. I told him not to worry. After all, I said, we were just taking the gun down to the woods to shoot off a few rounds.

I got home around 2:00 and immediately took a shower before passing out on my bed. The nap didn’t last long. A few minutes later, Mutt was at my doorstep, aforementioned firearm in hand. Truly, it was a sight to behold. It was black as midnight and the magazine was as long as the barrel. Then, to prove its capacity, Mutt began loading the shells, one by one, until the ninth round disappeared into the chamber. I was impressed, even though I rarely had much use for guns.

(Full Disclosure: when I was a few years younger (12), I shot my sister in the forehead with a pellet gun. It was an accident. I thought it was an air gun. It happened at my uncle’s house during the holidays. Chaos ensued. I remember a number of my relatives running around the house frantically for no apparent reason. My sister was fine, except that the impact of the pellet had left a small red dot right between her eyes. It lasted for about two weeks. To this day, it's made me a bit skittish about handling weapons. )

Once the shells were loaded, it didn’t make much sense to simply remove them, so instead we marched down to the dam behind our pond. Our property was remote enough that a few gunshots weren't going to create much of a stir. Mutt handled most of the firing. I was just enjoying the thrill. After we finished making craters in the back of the dam, Mutt and I started back toward the house. For some reason, he reloaded his gun before putting it back in his car. At the time, I didn't think much of it, especially since we were expecting a few more friends to show up shortly, but it was a choice that would come back to haunt him.

Judd and Stewart had called a little bit earlier. They were taking Judd's boat to the lake. Since my house was on the way, they wanted to know if we wanted to join them. My family didn’t own a boat, even though we only lived about 10 minutes from Hillsdale Lake, so my exposure was limited. In fact, I had never even been water skiing. But this day was all about new experiences, and I wasn't about to let this opportunity slip by.

As we headed out, I kept my lake virgin status to myself. I figured that once we were on the boat, I could play it cool. The strategy worked for a while. I just sat back, drinking root beer, watching my three friends take turns on the slalom ski. Eventually, Judd turned to me and asked if I wanted a turn in the water. As visions of a massive wipeout raced through my mind, I admitted that it was my first time to try anything like this.

Judd stared at me for a second, seemingly amused, then, taking pity on me, reached under the floorboard of his boat and pulled out a pair of plain white water skis. They were dusty and looked like they hadn't been used in years. They might as well have been training wheels. “You’ll learn with these,” Judd said, tossing them into the water. Soon thereafter, I was in the water too, and Judd was yelling directions at me from the back of the boat. “Act like you’re sitting in a chair,” he said. “And when the boat starts moving, don’t let go.” Simple enough, I thought, but I was certain that strength and coordination would wind up playing a bigger part in my success than what he was leading on.

Then it happened. It was just as easy as standing up. Judd accelerated to about 20 mph, and before I could let go, I realized that I was on top of the water. It felt amazing. The first time I tried it, I got it right. How many times can you say that in life? After about 10 minutes, my arms got tired and I let go. We spent a few more hours on the lake before the sun started to get low. I felt on top of the world.

Eventually, we decided to go back to my place before heading to a house party that was in town later that night. As we pulled away from the dock, Mutt spoke up. “Hey guys,” he said, looking at Judd and Stewart, “you wanna to see my gun?”

When we pulled up the driveway, my parents' car was gone. They had gone into town. The only people still around were a couple of my dad's friends. They were fishing down at the pond, drawn by the croppie and bass. No problem, I thought, we'd just hang out for a few minutes to allow Mutt his brief exhibition. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea to allow the demonstration to take place around the kitchen table, but it's the type of mistake you'd expect a teenager to make.

Judd and Stewart were both sitting down, listening to Mutt as he postured with his gun, rattling off its specs. Then he began showing off its mechanics. This is how you take off the safety. This is how you load a cartridge into the chamber. This is how you release the tension on the trigger...

At that moment, I was leaning against the frig, about to reach into the door for another Mountain Dew. As time has passed, I've occasionally asked Mutt what exactly was going through his mind when he inexplicably discharged a 12-gauge shot into my parent's living room ceiling. I've never really gotten a straight answer. What I do know is that the next 10 minutes have forever been emblazoned onto my memory.

I never did grab that soda. My hand remained frozen, inches from the can, almost paralyzed as an intense ringing sensation in my ears quickly vibrated down my whole body. I didn't want to turn around. For a moment, I wanted to believe that if I didn't look behind me, the accident that had just occurred wouldn't be real. When I did turn around, I saw Mutt standing completely erect, with a look of sheer terror in his eyes. It was as if every one of those discharged pellets, now firmly lodged somewhere between the first and second floors, represented a single small mistake that Mutt could have committed over a lifetime.

(Full Disclosure #2: this wasn’t the first time a loaded firearm had been accidentally discharged inside my house. It was the fourth. But it was the first time the trigger had been pulled by someone other than my brother. Anyhow, that’s a different story, for a different time.)

Stewart was the first one to speak. The shock hadn’t quite worn off yet, so his words were completely honest, free of any filtration the brain usually employs in times of social awkwardness. “We shouldn’t be here,” he blurted, referring to Judd and himself. “The less people who are here when your parents get back, the better.” I didn’t argue. What I did do was try to survey the damage through the smoke and ceiling debris that was still settling over my parents' living room furniture.

Amazingly, besides the Sheetrock dust that I began to vacuum up as fast as I could, there was surprisingly little carnage. At least Mutt had had the good sense to point his gun up and away from everyone. The shot made a hole in the ceiling no bigger than ten inches wide, and only a few stray pellets found their way into the decor, including the painting above the couch and some lamp shades. It was a brilliant display of dumb-luck marksmanship.

Meanwhile, Judd and Stewart wasted no time getting to their truck. (But not as fast as the fisherman down at the pond, who, upon hearing a loud gunshot coming from the house, realized they should probably flee the scene of the crime as quickly as possible.) By the time Judd and Stewart reached the end of the long gravel driveway, my parents were just pulling in. As each vehicle passed by the other, my parents politely waved, blissfully unaware of the scene about to greet them. Judd and Stewart, avoiding eye contact, waved back ever so slightly, and sped away without further interaction, boat in tow.

Back at the house, Mutt came inside again after putting his shotgun in the car. He was pacing back and forth, screaming at the top of his lungs. I had already told him that if he wanted to leave with the others, I would stay behind and try to smooth things over with my parents, but he refused. He wanted to apologize face to face, no matter the consequences. I respected him for that. In fact, that’s one of the reasons why he remains a good friend to this day.

No sooner had I finished vacuuming when my parents walked in. Later they would say that was their first clue that something was wrong. I didn’t say a word. All I did was point up. As their eyes settled on the hole, and before Mutt could say anything, my parents began to laugh. Laugh! It was the most amazing act of instant mercy I had ever seen. If it wasn't for the ongoing shock of the gun blast, I might have been more shocked by my parents' reaction.

As my dad patted the dust of a couple of couch cushions, my mom went into the kitchen and pulled a bucket of rainbow sherbet out of the freezer. Then she offered a bowl to Mutt. He had no idea what to say. He had been prepared to feel the wrath of my parents' fury, but instead he got a bowl of ice cream.

Afterwards, Mutt and I decided to meet up with the guys at the house party. I was still jazzed from all that had occurred that day, and Mutt was afraid that if he stuck around, my parents might actually come to their senses. When we got into town, Judd and Stewart were no where to be found. I guess they were still too freaked out about everything. I told Mutt that we didn’t have to tell anyone what had happened, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It was a great story, after all.

Personally, I didn’t come down from my high for a couple of days, but it wasn’t until much later that the lessons from that day began to materialize for me. First off, I learned that I could never make a career in the sanitation industry. I also learned that every once in a while, you can succeed on the first try. But most importantly, I learned that when someone you care about blows a hole in your ceiling, you can still choose to value his friendship over whatever it was he destroyed. And make sure you have plenty of sherbet.