G is for Glock 22
Introduction to “G is for Glock 22”
Short, harsh, to-the-point. I was listening to some Tori Amos (an artist I adore beyond words) and her song “Me and a Gun” hit me between the eyes. There is much I have to learn, and I am grateful for teachers like Tori Amos who tell the truth shamelessly.
So this is my poor imitation of her song.
* Reader’s note: Contains strong language and/or adult situations.
Her butt was aching from being slammed down onto the hardwood floor.
Another one, yanking her ponytail and pushing himself in. Smelly dark t-shirt in her face; he was bigger than most. She had to try to turn her head to keep his shoulder from bashing her nose.
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. She kept thinking that at some point it would hurt less. But it didn’t. It hurt the whole time.
He wasn’t the worst. The first one had been the worst; the shock, the disbelief. Not real. Not real. It would stop and she would wake up.
But it didn’t stop, and there was no waking up.
The first one was followed by one with a familiar scent. It was too dark to see faces, just shapes, but she could smell. And when she recognized the scent, she realized she hadn’t been screaming.
And so she started screaming, and screamed for what seemed like an hour; probably more like ten minutes. But nothing had stopped, so she stopped. She wanted to keep breathing.
Her friends had told her not to work the closing shift. But it was Daddy’s bar, and with Mom gone, he needed help. Daddy would keep her safe.
She began to notice things she’d never noticed before. Some men had button flies; most had zippers. Most but not all wore belts. Almost all of them needed to shave. And bathe. And they all stunk of crappy booze. Daddy stocked crappy booze.
In the flickering light, she saw what looking like a uniform standing over her. It took him longer to drop his pants; he had to lay his belt down carefully. It was Tommy, the deputy; that was good. Not because it was Tommy; it was what Tommy had in his belt.
She reached out her right hand, moving slowly; she could reach it. She unbuttoned the holster.
The gun fit nicely into her hand. Glock 22. It had plenty of rounds; 15, if it was full. She knew some things about guns. Daddy had taught her about guns. That was ironic, wasn’t it?
And she was a good shot.
Tommy was first; he was the one close enough to be able to stop her. One dead center forehead. There was enough light that she could see heads, if not faces, but that was plenty. The heads began to move, but she didn’t have a problem with moving targets. She emptied almost the whole clip, laying on her back on the floor with a man on top of her.
Then there was no sound in the room, not even breathing.
She pulled herself out from under Tommy and kicked him away. She tried to stand; her legs were wobbly and her butt was throbbing. Her legs were wet. She found a bar towel and dried off as best she could, and smoothed down her skirt and her top. She reached behind the bar for an open bottle and took a long slug of something, she wasn’t sure what. It was crappy.
There was some steadiness to her legs now, and she pushed the door open. The night was hot and sticky, the air dead. There was a semi at the all-night truck stop across the parking lot and… could it be? She’d have to risk it.
As she got closer, yes, it was… the driver was a woman! She began to run, to reach the woman before she climbed into her cab.
She was still ten feet away when the woman looked up. “What do you...oh Jesus.” The woman took her by the shoulders and walked her around the cab and helped her climb up into the passenger side. She started to throw the gun out the window, but the woman reached over and took her wrist. “No, keep it. It’s a good one. And you don’t want them finding it.”
As the truck upshifted and picked up speed, she saw the sign by the side of the road. “Now leaving Sodom, Ohio.”
And it struck her that she was now an orphan.
