The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [12]
“What about your fingers?” Buster asked, pointing to the missing digits on Joseph’s left hand. “Hell, Buster, I didn’t lose them in Iraq,” he said. “I was testing out accelerants for a new spud gun, and I exploded them off my hand.”
“Oh,” said Buster.
“You sound disappointed,” said Kenny.
“No, I’m not,” Buster answered quickly.
“We’re just bored,” said Joseph. “That’s the simplest answer. It’s like, no matter where you are or what you’re doing, you have to try like hell to keep from getting bored to death.”
Kenny killed his last beer and bent over to pick up another potato gun, smaller than the others, a silver canister attached to the gun by a tube, the barrel outfitted with a scope. “Like this, for instance,” Kenny said, holding the gun out for Buster to inspect. “Look down the barrel of this one,” he continued, but Buster hesitated, looking around at the other men. “It’s okay,” said Joseph, holding up his disfigured hand, “it’s totally safe.”
Buster leaned over the barrel but couldn’t see anything of note. “What am I looking at?” he asked. “It’s rifled,” said Kenny, “like a real weapon.” Buster slid his fingers inside the barrel and felt the grooves inside the PVC. “What does that do?” he asked. “Accuracy,” said Kenny. “You can hit a damn target from fifty yards away. Here, Joseph, show him.”
Kenny handed the gun to Joseph and then picked up an empty beer can. He began to walk away from the crowd, counting off each measured step until he was at a fair distance from them. Like a waiter holding a tray of food, he held the beer can in his open palm, just over his head. “This seems like the worst kind of idea,” said Buster, but Joseph reassured him. “I wouldn’t do it if I couldn’t do it,” he told Buster. Arden tore open a new bag of potatoes and handed one to Joseph, who began to delicately force the vegetable down the sharpened barrel, leaving behind a sheared-off portion of potato. “See,” said Joseph, “we’ve got a little ball of ammunition in there now.” He turned on the gas, filled the chamber with the correct amount, and then took aim through the scope. When the trigger was pulled, Buster saw only the flare of ignited gas that trailed the potato. Once he heard the sound of aluminum compacting, he noticed Kenny, still in full possession of his hand, picking the demolished beer can off the ground and holding it up for the rest of them to see. “That was incredible,” Buster said, punching Joseph’s shoulder. “Not bad, huh?” said Joseph, who seemed embarrassed or excited or both.
“Me next,” said Arden, who grabbed one of the last full cans of beer and started jogging out to where Kenny was standing. Arden placed the can on top of his head, William Tell–style, and waited for Joseph to aim and fire. “Should we take bets?” asked David, but the odds seemed so lopsided that they didn’t feel it would be worth the trouble. “No point putting it off any longer,” Joseph said, and then fired the potato gun. And missed. “C’mon, now,” yelled Arden, “that was off by a mile.” Kenny sidled up to Buster, holding the beer can that Joseph had obliterated with the potato gun. The can looked like a piece of shrapnel pulled from an unlucky body, jagged edges and splattered with warm pieces of potato. The webbing between Kenny’s thumb and forefinger was bleeding, but he did not seem to care. “I wish we had a video camera,” he said. “These are the kind of things you want to remember.”
Joseph reloaded and missed again. And again. “I guess I’m trying to aim a little high because I’m afraid that I’m going to shoot him in the face,” he said. “You should ignore that fear,” said Kenny, who began to urinate in full view of everyone. Joseph once again shoved a potato down the barrel of the gun, his face now serious and pale. The temperature seemed to have dropped twenty degrees in the last half hour. Joseph took an extraordinarily long time to sight the target through the scope and then fired, the concussive