The gun was in the mop closet.
Antique wood and twisted metal lay hidden on a shelf six feet high. The ammunition was stored across the laundry room, in a cabinet above the washing machine.
Before last night, the gun had only
been used to shoot the soda cans my son and I would hang in the trees down by
the French Broad River. Last night, the
mechanism designed to direct explosive destruction was tried and true to its
purpose.
There is something magical about 3:00AM. The crickets and
frogs seem to have tired by this time of night. Their ancient
harmonies drift beyond the murmuring of the river. The coyotes have
stopped yapping over their kill and the owls sit with wide eyed satisfaction of
the night’s hunt. Stirring from their slumbers, scavengers are
becoming bold enough to leave their hiding places. Domestic cats are mewling
and dogs are whining to be let outside. Tired housewives nudge their husbands
awake to accommodate these nocturnal demands. Yes, 3:00AM is magical.
Sometimes the magic is sensual, playful, and
creative. Lovers fall into bed after a
night out on the town. Maybe they find their bodies intertwined and wake up to
enjoy mingling shared dreams with realities felt in their flesh. Campers turn on their flashlights to tell
ghost stories and share secret thoughts with restless friends. Poets construct sculptured lines from their unquiet
imaginations as intricate and delicate as a spider’s web and as bold and
billowing as an afternoon thunder head expanding into the blue sky of spring.
Other times, the magic is mystical. Orbs
of golden light can be seen floating between the sentinel trunks of the hardwoods
surrounding Brown Mountain. Blue glow worms blanket the leafy carpet of
the laurel thickets imitating fey. Meteor showers visit our skies from time to time casting a magical spell in the darkest hours of the night. Twinkling stars dance
around the steady gleam of planets mirroring the Sun’s radiant light while hidden, safely tucked behind the skirts of Mother Earth.
3:00AM magic can also
birth dark and sinister. Last call at Dugan's Pub has the patrons trying
to sober up as they stumble off into the early morning hours. Fate hangs by the wobbly thread of drunken
reason, guided to the mouth of undefined need like a spent cigarette held between unsteady
fingers. Thieves destroy years of hard work in moments.
Drug hazed, addiction fed, desperate
disregard of others property and safety finds boldness in these dark moments. Evil is wide awake and lurking in the shadows. Unexplained noises crash into the solace of a
restful night’s sleep. The world, like a
Waffle House pancake, is flipped into the shocking heat of a grim reality.
Last
night, when 3:00AM dragged itself into my semi-conscious mind, I was
alone. My wife, my children, and our
dogs were spending the night at the lake house. I was to join them today
after the work week was finished. The
evening hours had been quiet and relaxing without the demands a house full of people
can project. Comedies and dramas on the
television had blinked their last flash of distraction a few hours ago. I was finally settled and still. Deep and restful sleep had come to me after my
ritualistic tossing an turning from one unsatisfactory position to another.
Blurry numbers
on the bed side clock seemed to radiate a red warning. I stretched my eyebrows higher to force my
eyes to open and focus. Then, with a suddenness
that caught my breath, I was instantly alert.
More alert than if I had showered and sipped down two cups of coffee. My mind was racing, frantic to catch up with
my reflexes. I glanced over at the clock
again to confirm the time was indeed 3:11AM.
Then I heard a distinct collection of noises I could easily identify
were originating from my garage. I could
not tell exactly what was going on, but I knew I was no longer alone in my
house.
It was
not the first time our house had been invaded.
It had happened twice before. The
last time, our family had been away on vacation and the bandits had enjoyed the
opportunity make themselves at home. They
even destroyed the garage and damaged our cars.
I guessed last night they thought the house was empty again because the
family car was gone and no dogs were barking at their approach. I decided last
night was going to be the last time they visited my home.
Without turning on any lights, I
made my way silently to the laundry room and recovered the weapon hidden in the
mop closet. I had not bothered to get dressed and I felt a
moment of self-conscious embarrassment as I crouched low loading ammunition
into the gun. Calvin Kline boxer briefs
did not exactly create a secure wardrobe for confronting intruders.
Carefully
I chambered the first found. My finger
was trembling as I toggle the weapon’s safety lever. Red paint indicated the trigger was active
and ready to fire, lacking only the gentle squeeze I had practiced while firing at the
cans by the river. I flung the door open
and flipped on the garage lights with one swift motion. My eye caught the movement of two separate
forms. One intruder was gone in a flash. His survival instinct was reflexive and
lighting quick. I knew he had
escaped. The other intruder was slower
to respond and had hidden behind the plastic organizers standing along the
garage wall. I yelled a warning and tried to frighten the intruder away. I got no response other than the eerie sound
of his breathing. I called out again in an attempt to force him
to run off. Still, I achieved no
response. So, I aimed my weapon at the
plastic door and unloaded the clip of ammunition with a steady hand.
I saw
the bloody splatter on the wall and I knew I had aimed true. The once quiet breathing was now a loud,
gruesome and desperate gasping. One long
exhale told me the spirit had left the body of my victim. My heart was pounding even though the
adrenaline had left my veins. I felt the
chill of the night air as I stood alone in my garage, holding a gun, while wearing
only my underwear.
Cautiously
I approached the destroyed storage container.
My shots had riddled the thin plastic with gaping holes. I had the presence of mind to put on my
leather yard gloves as I began the messy process of removing the body and cleaning
the blood off the walls and floor. Finally, I hung the dead intruder on a tree
in the back yard before going inside to clean up and try to get some rest
before the morning alarm demanded my attention.
To be
honest, I do feel a little guilty for killing the raccoon, but if the other one
comes back, I’ll make a hat out of him as well.
Who knew coonskin hats were a product of the magic surrounding 3:00AM?
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