Johnny America


Packin From Age Zero


The day I was born my fa­ther sneaked out of the hos­pi­tal with my sis­ter in tow. Moth­er fast asleep, he had two er­rands to run. He filled up on pan­cakes and syrup at the lo­cal Vil­lage Inn (my sis­ter had French toast), then off to K‑Mart they went so my dad could buy his new ba­by boy his Very First Shot­gun. This first day of my life, or so I’ve been told, I would­n’t eat a Sin­gle Thing (for three days be­yond I’d on­ly snack on mashed ba­nanas), so this shot­gun was the first item ever bought Just For Me — di­a­pers and rat­tles for a Ba­by-In-Ab­stract don’t count. I don’t know what my shot­gun looks like, whether it suits my per­son­al­i­ty or would match my Burber­ry um­brel­la, but it’s stashed away in a cramped at­tic in Tope­ka and I could claim it any time. Maybe one day I’ll go pheas­ant hunt­ing, or start a gang — ei­ther way I’m ready.

Filed under Non-Fiction on December 4th, 2003

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