Famous last words

I’ve been thinking a lot about death recently. Well, eulogies, more specifically. How will I be remembered? Obviously, they’d be forced to mention my numerous scholastic accolades, like the epic student council candidate speech I gave to the high school assembly in ’91, and I suppose they’d have to mention the freak naked hovercraft stunt that took me prematurely from this world, but who would step up and talk about the real me? More importantly, what would they say about my hair?

I even thought of faking my own death like Marcus Schrenker, the Indiana businessman who ejected himself from his single-engine Piper Meridian airplane in January. Not because I would like to run away from a divorce and certain financial ruin, but really just so that I could attend my own funeral in disguise, to see who grieved the hardest and maybe cough “Bullshit!” when I felt someone misrepresented me in their speech.

I’d like to be remembered as one of those strong silent types. Like a Shaolin monk in one of those ’70s kung fu movies. Y’know, the kind that was extremely peaceful, until you threatened his temple or kicked over his rice bowl or whatever it is that sends Buddhists into a tizzy. Then BLAM! Out come the Flying Mantis scissor kicks and shit. In fact, I’d be very happy if my eulogy sounded like a list of scenes from Steven Seagal movies. “I remember when Raf went to Alaska and bent the elbow of that guy from that evil oil corporation that was picking on natives.” But to be honest, while I’d like to be remembered as someone who single-handedly defended an old lady from 16 unsavoury thugs or the guy who ripped out someone’s trachea for wrongfully parking in a handicapped spot, the truth is, I won’t. Because I’m a wimp.

Perhaps it’s some kind of innate Canadian trait, but I am not into conflict. Even when gross little hairy-legged spiders get all up in my face, I often just scoot them onto a magazine and shoo them out the window.

Last week, I thought quietly about this as I loaded a .38 Smith & Wesson Special revolver. After placing each bullet snugly into the chamber, I catalogued every instance of successful non-confrontation I had engaged in and how peace was the only way to achieve enlightenment. Then I winced, aimed and shot a round into a paper target 10 metres away.

There are three words that describe the feeling of shooting a gun for the first time: “Ho. Lee. Shit.” When I woke up that morning, I certainly didn’t expect that I would be handling a loaded firearm. But here I was, squeezing off round after round of mini-explosives (under the careful supervision of a trained range officer of course). I had come to the Club de Tir Ville St-Pierre to introduce a story I’d planned to do on sport shooting (see this week’s Sports Supplement). After proving to the owner Marco that I wasn’t one of those “asshole journalists” that are out to brand all firearm owners as criminals, he asked me if I had ever discharged a gun. Even though I’d handled a firearm and passed a safety course, I had to admit that I had never fired one.

The psychological weight of handling a tool designed for stopping humans didn’t escape me. But after nervously loading the revolver, I knew that if I was going to write about it, I had to at least try it. I slowly took aim and squeezed the trigger, doubtful that I would even hit the paper. Expecting, with my luck, it would instead ricochet around taking everyone’s eye out.

The first hole was about three inches to the lower right of centre. I adjusted my sighting, took aim and fired again. Bull’s-eye. I covered my mouth hoping the range officer didn’t hear the fey involuntary squeal I let out when I saw the hole appear dead centre. I was addicted. I loaded more bullets and shot again. When it was over, my heart was racing and the air was chalky with gunpowder. I was thrilled and relieved. I pushed the little button to retrieve the target and out of 12 rounds, eight of them hit the bull’s-eye. None had passed beyond the three centre circles. I was a natural.

Maybe at my eulogy they would say that, “Indeed, Raf was a really peaceful guy, he wouldn’t even hurt a spider… but boy, he could kill the shit out of a piece of paper.” And then hopefully someone would mention my hair.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA