There is Danger!

I read this thing. It was an interview. Or a story. Or maybe it was an essay? Or a poem? It was by some dead guy. Some dead Italian guy. Pavese? Or was it Levi? Or maybe it was Pasolini? It was written just before he died. Just before he was murdered. Or killed himself? He said something about how we’re all in danger. Something about how we never know if maybe, at some moment—right now even—there could be someone out there thinking about killing us. Something like that I think. I was thinking of this the other day while I was in my car. It’s a real shitty car. A ’95 Blazer with a shoddy exhaust that causes the car to jerk every once in a while, but it gets me where I need to go and I’m too broke to fix it, and I think, ultimately, I really don’t care too much. But I was in my car driving somewhere, to the library, or the bookstore, or maybe this café down the main road just past the firestation where they sell these really nice hot drinks—chocolates and coffees mostly—and it’s dark (the perfect atmosphere for reading in my opinion, just so long as there is enough light to see the words). I usually keep a few books in my car, whether I’ve read them or not, just because I find it nice to always have one on hand if I happen to find that spot that demands I stop and read right there. I find that certain places tend to do that, like that café down the main road just past the firestation. Normally I had Bolaño, and García Márquez, and Chekhov, and Camus, and Walcott, and Pak, and Marshall, and Kincaid, and Lispector, and even some King, and Koontz, and Patterson, and Weis. I had gotten to where I was going because I opened up my glove compartment to grab a book, I think it was Chekhov, or maybe it was Camus, but instead I was greeted by the sight of a gun. It was a very small gun, I think. I picked it up and along the side of the barrel it read: Glock 19 Austria 9x19 (apparently a pretty common gun around here). The problem is I don’t remember ever buying a gun. I certainly don’t remember placing a gun in my car. I definitely don’t remember taking out my books, but they were gone. The only thing in my car was this gun. I though that maybe I was in the wrong car? (But how could that be when I got into the car in my driveway and my own keys!). And that’s when I started thinking about Pavese. Or was it Pasolini? And about death. And danger. I must have been in danger, why else would I have a gun. I thought about what he said, Pavese or Pasolini, in his essay. Or was it a short story? No, a novel, maybe? And I looked through my rearview mirror and saw a street lined with cars and people. The danger! Or was it something else? I thought about my job, my school, my house, my unpaid rent, my car, my friends (but I didn’t have any friends!) and my family. Then I thought about the hot drink I was going to get (I must’ve been at the café!), a hot chocolate with caramel and cinnamon (a wonderfully lethal combination) and a sugar cookie, and how it was the perfect snack to read Camus, or Chekhov. It probably hit me then, who could possibly have put me in danger; who it was that I bought the gun (I must have bought the gun) to protect myself from. I could see him in fact, in the rearview mirror, staring at me, watching me, waiting to carry out his next move to further my misery and ruin my life. Was he trying to kill me? He must have been; I bought the gun for that reason. I can’t imagine killing someone who didn’t intend to take my life. So I stared through the rearview mirror at the man that was my danger. I felt the weight of the gun (surprisingly heavy, and surprisingly light) in my hands as I stroked the barrel and the grip and placed my finger through the loop onto the trigger. I stared at the danger knowing full well what I had to do; I lifted the gun, pointed it at him, and pulled the trigger. I pulled it twice. Then three times. There were no bullets.