Brothers in Arms

In what was the childhood equivalent of the Geneva Conventions, we all agreed that from that point on, war would not be fought on Hawthorne Road without weapons that fired something less lethal than a BB. Could be rubber bands, could be squirt guns, whatever. There needed to be visual proof, not overwhelming surprise, the implication of an ambush, or the infinite imagination of an adolescent boy. Fletch and I figured we had the advantage because, as paperboys, we had an unlimited supply of rubber bands and we’d been shooting those at each other for years.

That was actually the extremity of one long piece of composite – aluminum cut from the plates of our father’s printing press, wrapped in, of course, duct tape. This vinyl-metal composite was a long thin strip that ran from the hammer, threaded through a deep notch in the butt, so that it remained flush, and down to the grip, where it angled at 90 degrees to form a crude trigger. Basically, it was a flex-mechanism; pull the “trigger” on one end and the “hammer” at the other would slip forward, releasing the rubber band and firing it down the length of the barrel. It was stiff enough that you could rest your finger on the trigger without firing. But close your fist like you mean it, and zap. Fletch happily demonstrated it to me, putting a round in my eardrum.

It was by far the most accurate and advanced weapon of the old Kudzu Wars. Like all the great sidearms of lore – Wyatt Earp’s Colt Buntline; Doc Holliday’s nickel-plated .44, Billy the Kid’s Schofield revolver – this sonofabitch also had a short, mean and very utilitarian service history. But it was similarly possessed of legend, one destined to outlive all who ever saw it fired, and all it ever fired upon.

Fletch kept the pistol in the bottom drawer of the bedside table by his right hand. One day he went off to a boarding school and I went looking for it. But it was gone. I don’t know where it is now.

Some highlights from the weekend: