The Gun

The gun chafed.

It chafed my armpit when I wore it
it chafed my soul when it lived in the glove compartment
it chafed me raw with every alarm call
It was there for a reason.

I did not tell anybody about it
not the guards I supervised
not my wife
not my friends.
My boss mentioned it just once, after handing it to me.
"Can you use one of these?"
I gulped. "Yeah".
"Take it on the alarm calls. Here's the permit"
and I looked down at what had to be a forged permit.
We were both clear on what was not said
and that it would never BE said.

I knew he was telling me that the new job wasn't as safe as the old one
and to get certified to carry was long and cumbersome
and knowing him, probably expensive
so screw the state and it's requirements
but he wasn't going to leave his employees naked.

He knew I had the I.Q. to know it without being told
and that was the only reason he gave the top job to a dirty fucking hippie

It lay on the office table next to the keybox
as I wondered.
For six hours.
Then, the first alarm call.
A bank.

It went into the keybox
and into the patrol vehicle
and it began to chafe.

I did not hand it off to the next shift,
The boss said "keep it. Graveyard shift only"
and never mentioned it again until I left his employ.
I hid it in the safe to which only my boss and I had keys.

God, how it chafed.
an insectoid irritant in the back of my mind
constantly buzzing about my conciousness
it's inherent danger omnipresent.

Two years later, my successor on the graveyard shift
got a call, midshift.
One of his sons, 7 years old
had shot and killed another of his sons
with one of his guns.
Accidentally.

I do not know where MY gun went, after I left,
and I hope I never find out.
It could have been, but probably was not
the gun that chafed me so badly
that killed his boy
The gun that I never used
nor even contemplated using.