Finally I got rid of it, the semi-automatic, found someone to take it. Some time ago I removed the cartridge from its chamber, rendered it less dangerous. Just less. A body could still get shot for holding it, so deadly did it look.
Granted, the cartridge held the compressed C oh two that would fire the thing, semi-automatically, something like fifteen rounds in a burst of how ever many seconds. It’s not something I recall, the instructions, I looked at them once, downloaded them, sought them out, as I endeavored to learn just what it was I’d inherited in the trailer house.
Not with it, the trailer house, it was already mine, but in it. The folks I foreclosed on, at least the he of the couple, she was gone, even if it was she with whom I corresponded, he was the one holed up there with the booze and oxygen extracting machine and the semi-automatic.I suspect whatever grown up version he had went with him. Wherever it was that he went.
He left the booze behind, and a house full of food, refrigerated until the power was cut off, or in the cupboards, amazing the rodentia didn’t take over. Months and months it was empty, that metal box in the woods, from the time that he left it until I got it back.
A silly little toy, for the kids, the semi-automatic. He was teaching them violence, in every which way, violence from fist and from gun, it was the life they would learn. Super realistic looking, made to look just like Daddy’s guns looked, deadly.
That was how it looked to me when I found there amongst all the junk, deadly.
The stuff left behind was various and sundried and made for a mystery of sorts, the kind of a thing that in the back country of Newalla Oklahoma left me thinking that Daddy was probably rotting in the septic tank out back, a suspicion not completely unwarranted, even if not much investigated.
The Law Enforcement Folks down in Norman had told me to avoid Daddy at all costs, he was a dangerous man, an opinion shared by my old neighbor down there. They told me they considered taking him, but for the oxygen and health issues. They couldn’t afford to take care of him, no matter how much not doing so might cost.
Someone apparently took care of him, or maybe not, I don’t know. After all, the semi-automatic was left behind, along with all sorts of good clothes, sturdy stuff, and dishes and boxes and such out on the back porch, waiting to be loaded up. Perhaps he got tired of it, the moving.
The booze? Well, perhaps he decided to quit again, get his life right. I left it out by the road with most of the rest of the stuff for the peddlers. I suspect someone had already gone through the good tools, but perhaps he took them with him, for starting his new life.
The oxygen? Well, perhaps he recovered from his lifetime of smoking. I took that one home and breathed pure oh two for a while, just for fun, to see if it would get me high, alter my state of consciousness. I donated it and the portable tanks left behind soon thereafter.
She told me she was dying, had the cancer, that's how she put it, the cancer, and she and the kids were with her sister, who'd take the kids. She said she didn't know where he was.
The giant mirror that they left behind will go to my realtor’s friend Ellen, along with some of my stuff, some of it second hand. It’s the last remnant I think, there’s nothing else of the Wisdom’s that will go with me, the paperwork has all been shredded, burned, perhaps some stuff out in the garage, trinkets, waiting to be passed along. Her costume jewelry long gone, some of it kind of interesting. It felt cursed, I don't think I ever wore it. A big axe out there, bigger than I want now, but still, not a threatening thing.