Tag Archives: arguments

The Gun

The August prompt from my Florida writers’ group is to use a “hook” within the first few lines to draw readers/listeners in to the story.  This is my offering—

I discovered the gun in the drawer of my husband’s bedside table this morning.  I’d been looking for the bottle of Xanax he’d borrowed from me last night, and I found it lying beside the gun.

To say I was shocked would be an understatement.  I sat down numbly on the bed, staring vacantly at the gun, wondering why on earth my husband would have such a thing.

It looked huge—an ugly, metallic-sheened obscenity lying there like a wide, upper-case L, one arm shorter than the other, a curled stem sticking from between its two arms like an erect, male appendage.  The shorter arm was pebbled with three shallow curves on its inside edge, obviously the arm someone would use to hold the gun and point it.  The longer arm was straight, with a round, black hole at its end.

Loath to touch it at first, I eventually gave in and picked it up between thumb and forefinger.  It was heavy, and oily to the touch, almost reptilian.  After a moment, I clasped it in my other hand and pointed it at my reflection in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door opposite.

The sight frightened me to the point I cried out and dropped the gun on the carpet.  It landed with a soft thud, then lay at my feet, pointing back at me.  Gingerly, I stirred it with my toe to point it away.

Why does Frank have this…this thing in his drawer?  What’s he afraid of?  And why didn’t he tell me he has it?

The gun was still on the carpet when I came back upstairs after lunch.  I knew I couldn’t just leave it there, but I had no idea what to do with it.  Without knowing why Frank even had the thing, I couldn’t put it back where I’d found it.

What if he’s planning to use it on me?

Sitting on the bed again, I swallowed a Xanax from the bottle still lying in Frank’s drawer, then tossed the bottle to my side of the bed.  As I did, a light went on in my anxious brain.  I picked up the gun carefully, walked around to my bedside table, and put it in my own drawer.  The pill bottle followed it, and I closed the drawer firmly.

There!  Problem solved!

Downstairs again, I couldn’t stop asking myself why Frank had the gun in the first place.  We’ve had our share of arguments over the years like any married couple, maybe more in the past few months.  But there’s never been anything leading either one of us to contemplate violence.

What am I missing?  Is there something different lately?  Is he tired of me?  Is there someone else?

Dinner was unusually silent, mostly because I replied to Frank’s conversation in monosyllables.  By dessert, he’d stopped trying, and he scurried off to his den afterwards to watch a game.  I busied myself reading in the living room.  Or tried to.

Why is he so quiet?  What’s he planning?

The old grandfather clock in the vestibule was chiming eleven as I climbed the stairs, dreading entering the bedroom, not knowing what might be waiting for me.  Frank had headed up half an hour ago, so if he had something planned, he’d had time to get ready.  I wondered if he’d found the gun in my drawer.

He was lying in bed reading when I came in.  “I took another Xanax from your bottle,” he said sleepily.  “Had a rough day.”

I slowly got undressed before visiting the bathroom, not understanding how he hadn’t found the gun when he got the pill from my drawer. 

Maybe he did!  Maybe he’s got it under the covers…

When I came back from the bathroom, his light was off.  I carefully crawled in beside him, lay quietly for several minutes until I could no longer hold it in.  “Frank?  Are you still awake?”

“I am now,” he mumbled.

“Frank, why do you have a gun in your drawer?”

“A what?”

“A gun!  Why is there a gun in your drawer?”

“What are you on about?” he said, his voice sharper now.  “I don’t have a gun!”

“I found it this morning,” I said, my own voice rising.  “Don’t tell me you don’t have a gun!  It’s right here in my drawer now.”

Rolling over, Frank opened one eye.  “Have you been taking your meds?  You’re talking crazy!”

“Crazy?  Crazy?  Okay, then what’s this?”

I slid out of bed, yanked open my drawer, pulled out the gun.  Pointing its ugly snout at him, I said, “This is a gun, Frank!  And I found it in your drawer this morning.”

He stared at me in disbelief for a moment, then rolled his back to me again.  “You’re delusional, Emma.  Take your pill and let me get some sleep.”

Infuriated by his nonchalance and denial, I took a deep breath, closed one eye, and pulled the trigger.  The gun jerked violently in my hand, hurting me, and the loud Bang! deafened me.  And then…and then…

I wakened in a cold sweat.  Frantic, I turned to my husband, but he was snoring peacefully beside me.  And despite my frenzied search in the darkened room, there was no gun to be found. 

When I awaken again, it’s almost ten o’clock.  The sun is streaming its narrow beams around the edges of the shades, still pulled down, and I see dust motes floating lazily in its warmth.  Frank has dressed and gone to work.  I lie there for a few minutes, reliving the dream.

Thank God that’s all it was!  Imagine if it had been real!

As I’m washing my hands in the bathroom, I wince at a tinge of pain in my right palm, and I see that it’s lightly bruised.  After dressing, I remember to take my pill before heading downstairs.  On the way out of the bedroom, I hesitate a few moments at the door.

Don’t be stupid!  There’s nothing there!  Forget it!

 Nevertheless, I decide to check, and to my horror, I discover the gun in the drawer of Frank’s bedside table.

The Issue

A sage once opined that when we persist in arguing over and over again with a stupid person, we reveal ourselves as the stupid one.  Nevertheless, I have long engaged in fruitless discussions with an old-time friend, to the point where I’m beginning to suspect the adage is true.  I’m the stupid guy.

The problem I have is that this friend always strays from the issue at hand, deflecting my well-reasoned arguments by taking us off topic.  For instance, if I were to suggest to him that it’s raining outside, a fact easily verified by looking out the window, he might well claim he sees no one with an umbrella.

“That’s not the issue!” I would protest.  “You’re changing the subject.  Whether or not you spy an umbrella has nothing to do with whether it’s raining or not.”

He would probably just smile and ignore my argument.

Or if I were to offer an opinion that wages for the working-class haven’t kept pace with rising costs, his comment might be to tell me he has more money at hand now than he’s ever had.

“That’s not the issue!” I would probably object.  “You might well be better off than ever, but that doesn’t change the fact that costs are rising.”

He’d likely smile again, placidly this time, and not concede my point.

Perhaps I wouldn’t find this habit of his so maddening if it didn’t seem to me that he blithely assumes he’s had the better of me when these discussions happen.  Without ever directly rebutting something I’ve said, he inevitably counters with a peripherally-related argument, thereby appearing to satisfy himself that the matter is settled.

And yet, stupid me, I keep arguing with him.

A while back, we were talking about whether or not the scarcity of cold and ‘flu medicines on drugstore shelves is a problem.  “I’m told it’s a supply-chain issue,” I stated.  “And that’s exacerbated by a heavier-than-usual demand for the stuff because of the prevalence of illness now that school is back.  So, it’s a real problem right now.”

“I don’t use over-the-counter remedies,” my friend said.

“Yeah, but that’s not the issue,” I replied.  “The issue is that there’s a shortage of those products at a time when people need them.  That’s a problem!”

Another casual shrug was all I got.  And that smug smile.

We’re both aged athletes with an abiding interest in sports, and while watching a televised ballgame together a few nights ago, I said, “Boy, the Blue Jays look really good tonight.  It’s only the fourth inning, and they’ve already got seven hits and four runs in.  They’re hot!”

My friend replied, “Yeah, but they’re not playing the Yankees!”

“That’s not the issue,” I exclaimed, maybe a bit heatedly.  “So what if they’re not playing the Yankees?  They could be playing Casey at the bat in Mudville, for all I care.  They’re playing really well tonight.”

My friend shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

More recently, we were talking about the government’s removal of masking requirements for air-travel.  “I think they must consider the pandemic over,” I complained.  “They figure no mitigations are needed now, but I think that puts all of us at risk.”

“I don’t fly,” my friend said.

“That’s not the issue,” I fired back.  “Lots of people don’t fly.  But for those who do, the issue is they’re being placed in harm’s way.”

My friend shrugged off my assertions.  “But not if they don’t fly,” he said.

“That’s not the issue…” I began, before giving up.  How stupid can I be?

Yesterday, over a couple of beers and Reuben sandwiches, I decided to tell my friend why, during many of our conversations, his continual diversions from the subject at hand are bothering me.  “It’s almost as if you’re ignoring my point,” I said, “as if what I’m saying doesn’t matter to you.”

“Why would you think that?” he asked, squarely on point.  It caught me by surprise because I’d expected him to offer one of his usual non sequiturs.

“Well…you never seem to respond directly,” I stammered.  “You usually mention something only superficially related to whatever I’ve said, and then assume you’ve won the argument.”

“Argument?” he repeated.

“Well, not argument,” I demurred.  “More like discussion.  And you ignore the points I’m making.”

“And you think I’m doing that in order to win…what, exactly?”

“The…the argument.”  I smiled weakly over my beer at the absurdity of it all.

My friend smiled back.   “Did it ever occur to you that I might be conceding your point in these discussions, agreeing with you, and simply offering up another thought to keep the conversation going?”

Drawing a deep breath, I said, “Oh!  I guess not, no.  I sort of assumed you were just trying to one-up me and win…you know, the argument.”

“Well maybe, that’s the issue then,” he said.

And at that point, we ordered another beer and moved on to a much less-stupid, more pleasant conversation, all issues set aside.

Two Resolutions

“Okay, you first.”

“Me?  Why me?”

“You don’t want to go first?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to.  It’s just that I’d like to have a say in deciding.”

“Okay, no problem.  You want me to go first?”

“You can if you want to.  Or, I will…whatever.”

“Jeez already, make up your mind.”

“My mind?  Why’s it me who has to make the decision?”

“You don’t.  But one of us does or we’ll never get through this.”

Silence.

“Okay then, you can decide.”

“You sure?  In that case, you go first, like I said in the beginning.”

“Yeah, because you don’t want to, right?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to.  I already told you that.  But one of us has to, and you told me to decide.  I chose you.  Why are you making such an argument out of this?”

“Me?  How come it’s me who’s arguing?  Takes two to tango.”

arguing

“Okay, look, I’m not arguing.  All I’m doing is trying to get us started.  If you want me to go first, I will.  If you want me to go second, I will.  Just tell me what you want so we can get going on this.”

“Oh, so now I’m the one who’s holding us up?

“I didn’t say that.  But I need to know how you want this to go.  I’m ready to start, but you can go first if you want to.”

“Right, so it is me who has to make the decision!  Just like I thought!”

More silence.

“Okay, let me try again.  It’s not you who has to make the decision.  I said I’d decide who goes first because you said that’s what you wanted, and I chose you.  But, since you have a problem with going first, I will.”

“Who says I have a problem going first?”

“Well, apparently you do or you’d have started by now.  I’ve already suggested that three times.”

“Suggested?  Is that what you call it?  Telling me I have to go first, like I shouldn’t have a say in it?”

“Look, I’m not telling you to do anything, okay?  I’m inviting you to go first.  Or second, if that’s what you prefer.  Just make up your mind or we’ll be here all day.”

“And that’s my fault?  Seems to me you’re the one who’s trying to control everything.”

Prolonged silence this time.

“Look, for the last time, I don’t care who’s in control.  I just want us to get started on this, and obviously somebody has to go first.  Who do you want that to be?”

“You’re asking me to decide?”

“Yes…please!”

“Meaning you don’t want to.”

“Jeez Louise!  Okay, I’ll decide, and I’ll go first.”

“So, now you’ve changed your mind, right?  ‘Cause earlier, you said I could go first.”

“You want to go first?  Please, be my guest.”

“Your guest?  So now I need your permission to go first?”

More silence.  Gritted teeth this time.

“No, you don’t need my permission.”

“I mean, you’re not the boss of me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Okay.  So now that we got that settled, you can start.”

new year

“Yes!  Thank you!  Finally!  Here it is then, my New Year’s resolution.  I resolve in 2020 to be more patient with everyone I meet.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, that’s my first one.  I have some others, but now it’s your turn.”

“Why are we doing them one at a time?”

“It’s called sharing!  I share one of mine, then you share one of yours.”

“Yeah, I guess, but we could do your whole list, right?  Before we do mine?”

Silence again.  Hostile now.

“You don’t like that?  You’re determined we have to take turns?”

No reply.  The beginning of a snarl.

“Okay, already, I’ll read mine.  Sheesh!  You don’t have to be so grouchy!  Here it is, and I hope it makes you happy.  You ready?  I resolve to try very hard this year to be less argumentative.”

Open disbelief.

“How’m I doing so far?”