The Family Gun

With so much talk about guns these days, I find myself with a lot of strong opinions (who, me?) about who should and shouldn't have them. Well, speaking of people who shouldn't have them, I thought I'd tell a story about the Brown family gun.
A fairly nondescript .38 revolver was introduced into our home sometime around 1980. I remember getting back from school one day and my mom sitting me and my brother down, in order to show us our new gun. She showed us its six chambers and a box of bullets. Being the pussies that we were and still are, Augie and I were terrified of this new member of the family. I can't remember why we got it, or if my parents were even telling the truth. Thinking back and connecting the dots, it probably had something to do with a briefcase full of cash that my dad was keeping for his incarcerated amigo in Costa Rica, Sandy. We also kindly stashed his Rolls Royce for him, too. There are ostensibly a lot of reasons for owning a handgun in New Orleans and, for whatever reason, we now had one.
So, in the beginning, the gun lived under my parents bed. Made sense - when the burglar showed up, my mom could reach under the bed and simply shoot him.
Augie and I were a bit more careful and nervous when jumping on their bed or having violent pillow fights. Afterwards, we would get on either side of the bed and peer down to make sure it wasn't going to go off on its own. It was kind of like watching a rattlesnake behind glass. We never touched it. Every kid should be such a pussy.
After some time had gone by, the gun moved from its spot under the bed into a super-cool piece of post-modernist furniture that we had in our living room. It's hard to describe this thing, but it was a circular bar with bar stools that swiveled. The cushions on the stools were orange leather - the color and texture of a basketball. The inside of the bar was hollow but had a top piece with compartments which slid open. The gun took up residence in there, next to some jewelery and seashells. I don't quite understand how this made sense, as it was a totally inconvenient place to hide anything that you might need to access quickly. I think we felt more comfortable with it stowed away. There would be no accidental run-ins while trying to locate a lost bedroom slipper, like before. When my friends would come over, we would sit at the bar, remove the piece that covered the entry into the bar's innards, and have a peek . It looked even scarier next to those seashells!
Years later, the gun moved out of our house and onto our sailboat, the S.S. Kiki, without a lot of fanfare. I guess it was getting dusty at the house and not any use at all: we never hunted or went to the shooting range. Like insurance, we made a place for it in our lives, but it really served no purpose. No one knew how to use it with any confidence. And half of the family unit was too scared to even look at it for very long.
This poor gun needed some excitement in its life. I mean, we still had that same box of unused bullets. So, all-aboard and anchors away!
While out at sea in the Gulf of Mexico, the gun made a cameo appearance. Nobody sent me the memo that the gun was now residing aboard our home on the water. As I recall, my mom and a girlfriend of one of the guys who sailed with us were polishing off a bottle of this Hazelnut liqueur called Frangelico. Anyone who knows my mom knows that she likes to tie one on and loves to get there by way of dessert liqueur. I think she's still hooked on one called Cardinal Mendoza, in case you need to get her a gift.
Anywhoo, the drinking buddy that day's name was Buffy. Buffy and my mom, along with the other grown-ups present decided to dust off the old gun and let a few bullets sail through the southern sky. Augie and I were down-below playing Othello when we heard the shots being fired off. Buffy and mom stood at the stern firing away while teetering on the edge of the cockpit and drunkenly swaying in the wind. So that's where the gun went! One was shooting the Brown family .38, and the other had a big assault rifle that belonged to our friend, Don. I can still hear the shells hitting the fiberglass deck.
Therapist after therapist has asked me the same question: "How did that make you feel?"
I was never really shocked by too much of anything that my parents did. The boat was just a particularly twasted venue for them to get their rocks off, especially due to the fact that I couldn't run from them when I was out at sea.
On Kiki, the gun lived in a built-in wooden drawer in the boat's only bedroom. In that drawer was some rose body cream made by a company called Carnation. Don't know why I remember that detail, but I do. The gun took on a bit of a new identity on the boat. It got greasy with fingerprints, it got some scratches, and it even made its way into my mom's purse a few times when we had docked in Mexico.
Over the years, we had a slew of young guys who were possibly employed by my dad to live on the boat, take care of it and sail to different locations. It was obvious that the guys were dealing drugs, but my dad didn't care until they ripped him off, which would inevitably happen.
I imagine the gun became way more useful when we were away and these young coke-heads were running the show
Time went on, and Kiki spent lots of time in Mexico. My parents would take a few month-long trips down there per year. Augie and I stayed behind, in order to go to school.
I'd sometimes inquire about the gun as if it were some slutty cousin of mine. "Where's the gun these days?" Last I heard, pirates stole it off the boat. That very well could be true... Chances are, one of the boat boys took it when they knew my Dad was getting ready to bust them for some ridiculous charge to his AmEx.
Oh, the sweet innocent childhood memories.
So, back to the issue of guns. Our family proved too unstable to make a proper home for a nice little revolver. The combination of 2 pussy kids, one rowdy cognac drinker and one Thor Heyerdahl with a major edge is no place for a sweet little gun.