Don't Mess With This Old Man

My ticket to manhood

The barefoot country boy in me loves stuff like this. When I was 10, I begged my parents for a “wrist rocket,” a fancy forked slingshot with a wrist bracket that was all the rage among boys on the edge of liking girls. On Saturdays, the banks of the bayou across from my house would be lined by skinny boys wearing wide grins and giving hell to any turtle that dared to breathe.

When one would pop up, a fusillade of rocks and steel would rain down on him creating columns of water and drawled narration.

“Dayum, d’you see that? I almost hit that son-of-a-bitch!” (Christian southern boys try on cussing like their older sisters try on shorter dresses. It’s highly provisional.)

We weren’t very accurate. The turtles reacted to nearby shots but didn’t suffer from them. Despite our efforts, the turtle mortality rate of the mid-eighties remained stubbornly static. At night in bed, I would go over the shots in my head, replaying them in a montage. It helped me to sleep. And still does. My African safari wears my brain down to a sleepy nub these days. Back then, in the montage, I was wildly inconsistent 10 yr old, but in my dreams I could shoot like this old man.