In the reflection of the large protective eyewear we are forced to wear, I can make out his shape. He leans against the wall, his ankles and arms crossed. It’s a pose of feigned nonchalance. The tops of his fingers brush against the gun holstered at his waist, and his shoulders are tense. If I turned with the gun in my hand, he would no doubt attempt to subdue me.
“Trying to kill someone?” he asks lightly.
“Yes,” is my terse reply. “Myself.”
I fire again to shut him out. The party was a catastrophe. If I read people better, I might have picked up on the odd looks of the bartenders as we walked into the shabby pub. The waitstaff stared at us with raised eyebrows. Foolishly I believed it was because of Daisy’s beauty. But as the night wore on, even one as dense as I am knew we looked like fools—me in my dark suit and tie, carefully picked out at a designer suit store at the mall, and Daisy in her frock. We looked ridiculous—caricatures of people.
The students who came to eat our food and drink our beer stared at us with wide eyes and stifled laughs behind their hands. Beside me, Daisy was a wilted flower, the edges of her mouth turned down, her hair hanging limply around her neck, and her shoulders drooping.
We retreated to a corner, where we stood alone, my arm around her bared shoulders giving what weak comfort I could. Her eyes scanned the room again and again, looking for her friend, but that person never appeared.
The gun that hung at the small of my back called for me to release it from its confines as if bullets could somehow right our tottering ship.
Now I aim that gun at the target, envisioning the head and torso as my own. In my stupidity, I allowed Daisy to be mocked. She has never felt as ostracized and weird as she does now. Her sleep was restless, and this morning her beautiful face was tight and pinched. When I suggested she skip her class on Monday, she refused but I could see the dread surrounding her like a dark, ugly cloud.
Another round, another perfect constellation of holes in the target, yet my dissatisfaction is unrelieved. As I pack my case, the watcher ambles over. He grabs one of the discarded targets and holds it up to the light. This one I’ve shot out the eyes, mouth and made a large hole in the center of the forehead. “I haven’t seen that kind of control over that distance since the FBI sent in a sharpshooter to train some of my coworkers.”
“I do this for leisure.” I wish my magazine was not empty. It would take at least thirty seconds to load the magazine with a bullet and then chamber a round. He could have shot me nine times by then.
“I’m Oliver McFadden.” I take his proffered hand automatically. “Boxing is my recommendation. Nothing like hitting someone else to relieve the stress.”
He may be correct. Shooting my imaginary self a million times will not eradicate the memory of last evening. A fist to my face and a return strike would be satisfying, but not under the eye of this watchful man.
“Nick Anders.” The gun case and protective gear are stowed in the backpack resting against the back wall. In it is my wallet with several hundred dollars and my identification that declares I am Nick Anders from Ithaca, New York. I am an art student at the university. I live with my girlfriend. I am no one of importance.
I shrug into the heavy leather jacket and slip the straps of the backpack over my shoulders. Stiffly I reply, “I am a new resident and am unfamiliar with the area. This place I find on the internet.”
“Stop by the Warehouse. It’s a gym for serious folks, not the meat markets where women come in their Lululemon yoga pants and bro dudes try to flex in front of the mirror in hopes of getting their attention. It’s a real gym.”
I open my mouth to release a denial but stop. “Do you have a girlfriend, Oliver McFadden?”
He blinks and then cocks his head. “No, but women are definitely my preferred partners.”
My interest in him wanes. If he had a girlfriend perhaps I would befriend him and then his lady would be friends with Daisy. That he is single makes him of no interest to me. I turn away and move toward the exit.
“So wait, if I had a girlfriend then you’d be interested in visiting the gym? You’re a strange guy, Nick Anders. But a fucking amazing shot.”
Outside, I climb onto my bike. It’s ferociously cold and while the helmet protects my face from the wind, it still bites in my vulnerable areas. The jeans are a poor barrier to the bitter chill but I welcome it, for it reminds me of home.
Whipping out, I wend through traffic, conscious of the gaze that tracks my every movement. Knowing who is behind me, I take extra precautions to obey all traffic signals. It takes thirty minutes to arrive at my location. Hurriedly, I unlock the exterior door and then throw open the doors to the stairs. In less time than it takes a man to piss, I’m inside.