Shooting Roadrunner

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Saturday morning was sacred.   Cartoons, the driving force behind my weekend well-being  came on at 5:30 a.m.  That means that Mikey and I turned the TV on at 5:00 a.m.  and watched the test pattern for 30 minutes.   We were adamant that we not miss one single minute of cartoons.

I liked to watch Scooby-Doo, The Roadrunner, The Pink Panther, Speed Buggy, and Bugs Bunny.   I wanted to help Coyote kill the Roadrunner and solve all his problems.   I loved to watch him open those crates from ACME because, invariably, they contained some really cool stuff–rocket suits, explosives, and other things that might kill a bird that could run really fast.

Mikey, my protector from the older neighborhood boys who delighted in beating the crap out of smaller kids, could be a real pain, sometimes.  One morning after getting home from night shift, dad left his police gun belt in the big brown chair in the living room.  Then he stumbled off to bed in a daze.

I instantly recognized my chance to assist Coyote.   Pulling dad’s pistol (.357 Magnum) from its holster,  I aimed it at The Roadrunner.   Coyote was going to be really happy…I pulled on the trigger with all my might.  I could see the hammer come back, and I figured it had something to do with making this gun work.

What I didn't plan on, was that dang Mikey going in and telling on me! Suddenly, looking real sleepy in his underwear, dad appeared out of nowhere.   He deftly took the gun out of my hands and told me I should never take this gun out of its holster again unless he was with me.   He said I could shoot it when I was a bit older.  A few years later, I got my chance.

I was taught respect for guns by my dad.   He kept that loaded, .357 in a drawer by his bed for years after he left police work and became a school teacher.  I knew why he kept that loaded gun by his bed–there were a lot of hippies he helped send to prison.  One day, they would get out, and he counted on them having long memories.

Sometimes I lay awake at night, wondering if this night would be the one picked by the bad guys to come after my dad.   I imagined those long-haired hippies wearing leather jackets, carrying big knives on their belts.  Those knives were razor-sharp.  Every creak and groan I heard in the night was the sound of big, black, leather boots stepping ever so softly.   The grizzled man wearing those boots, stealthily searching through our house, looked for dad, to kill him in his sleep, and get revenge for all those miserable months in prison.

When I was seven years old, I started wearing a knife on my belt.   It was a silver-handled Buck knife with a long, razor sharp blade.    I kept it under my pillow at night because I figured dad would need help if more than one hippie tried to sneak into his room.  I would be his backup.

I also had a hunch that with all the bears in Idaho, the time would come when I would need to use that knife to protect myself.  Bear attacks were common.  Like Tarzan of the Apes, I would plunge that knife into his neck until he was dead.  It was all in a day’s work.  I was always the victor.

Sometimes, while sitting around daydreaming, I imagined spectators - a few adults, but mostly young girls about my age - who needed to be saved from a ferocious bear or stinking hippie.  I stood, light on my feet, surrounded by all those scared, helpless onlookers who anticipated a heroic scene.  The roar of the crowd was only surpassed by the roar of the beast before me, ready to tear me to pieces with sharp claws.

Of course, the hippie, after snuffing his cigarette out in the dirt, always came after me with his long, Bowie Knife.  Being agile, strong, and in possession of a superior weapon, I wreaked havoc on those enemies!  My smug sense of greatness from those cerebral conquests was euphoric.

That silver-handled knife instilled confidence, and I felt secure knowing it was always at hand.  Nobody questioned why I wore it.