Thirty Eight Special by Robert Kruger

“If you know someone who’s depressed, please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn’t a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather.”

—Stephen Fry

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Author’s note: My good friend, Sean, had repurposed an old decanter that once held Johnny Walker scotch, whose label he had steamed off and replaced with one of his own design. On the new label he had printed: CONVO-LOTION. In fine print, it announced: “Good for what ails you. Apply liberally.” If only those words had proven to be true.

Sean had recently been fired from his computer-programming job at the University of Utah. He had not shown up to work for over two weeks for reasons that he could neither fully understand nor explain. He was given to periodic bouts of severe depression. His convoluted brain was apparently sending him mixed signals, confusing apathy with action. He told his wife he was on vacation. In truth, he was holed up in his den during the day with his decanter of CONVO-LOTION close by. He couldn’t stop thinking about his father. Sleep was his only reprieve, and Tooele was his only escape.

Sean ran our department’s computer science laboratory. He stood six-foot four, had a full red beard and spoke softly. Despite his imposing physical presence and his fascination with firearms, he was gentle and kind and solicitous. Few people measured up to Sean… either physically or mentally.

Sean lived in Salt Lake City, which is situated on a plateau bookended on the east by the Wasatch Mountains—renowned for its world-class skiing—and to west by the Uinta Mountains. Salt Lake City was associated with restrictive liquor laws at that time, but, truth be told, liquor was as available there as in any city in the United States, with a few idiosyncrasies inspired by the LDS Church—no liquor purchases on Sunday and no liquor by-the-drink in restaurants. But state-run liquor stores were located conveniently nearby, where wine and spirits could be purchased in mini bottles that were permitted in restaurants. Beer bars abounded.

Once a year, Sean and a few of his buddies embarked on a pub crawl, a walking tour of some of those beer bars. They rated each bar they visited according to several criteria: price, variety and friendliness, ambianceand odeur. Sean’s favorite criterion was odeur. His favorite bar was a jazz club named D. B. Cooper’s that Sean and I visited occasionally. The club was the name mistakenly given to an unidentified man, who hijacked a commercial jet in 1971 and parachuted from the plane with $200,000 in a ransom payment. No trace of him, save for $5,800 of that cash, was ever found.

Sean was well-read and conservative in most aspects of life. His burgers had to be incinerated to avoid E. coli and his assessment of ethnic food was: The less authentic the better. You couldn’t be too careful.

He hosted Elephant Club, an ad hoc group of friends, who met in Sean’s den every Monday evening following work, where he dispensed his wisdom. “Let’s be smarter than we are,” was his frequent refrain. Sean was also known to spout mixed metaphors during club meetings. “Stop barking up a dead horse.” “Does the pope shit in the woods?” “Is the bear Catholic?” The bookshelves of his den were lined with many colorful elephant figurines that club members had gifted him over the years. The club’s discussions were wide-ranging and lively and convivial. His decanter of CONVO-LOTION fueled their discourses.

Sean owned a small cabin in Tooele, located in the foothills of the Uintas, about an hour’s drive west from his home. At that time, the region between Salt Lake City and Tooele was covered with little more than scrub pine and sagebrush. He treated his Tooele cabin as his sanctuary away from civilization, where he could spend time alone, read and smoke his favorite Macanudo cigars. He would always bring his decanter of CONVO-LOTION along for company.

One Saturday morning, before he had not fully recovered from yet another day of CONVO-LOTION “therapy,” he headed west to his cabin, donut and diet Dr. Pepper in hand. He was accompanied by his dog-eared copy of Nine Stories by J. D. Salinger, his Smith & Wesson.38 Special revolver that had been a gift from his father on his sixteenth birthday, a fistful of cigars and a sack of expended diet Dr. Pepper cans. (His typical breakfast consisted of a chocolate-covered donut, washed down with a can of diet Dr. Pepper. He was a man of many contradictions.) The purpose of this trip was to execute as many of those cans as he could.

After he arrived, he finished the last of his donut and added another Dr. Pepper can to his sack. He made himself at home and read into the late afternoon. After he had finished reading A Perfect Day for Bananafish, he unpacked his soda cans, went outside and placed them on the tree stumps, rock outcroppings and wooden fence posts that surrounded his cabin.

He loaded his Smith & Wesson and began slowly executing his cans, one-by-one. His father had taught him to shoot well. He enjoyed hearing the distant echo of each shot as it rang out and feeling its reverberations from the distant hills. As the last of the sunlight disappeared behind the Uintas, he executed the last of his cans and went inside to smoke a Macanudo and consult with his CONVO-LOTION until late that evening.

As moon rose over the mountains, and the night sky brightened, his mood began to darken. The moonlight came through a cabin window and shone upon his Smith and Wesson, which lay by his side. He looked down at his gun in the moonlight. He remembered opening the present his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday—a police-issue, .38 Special from when his father was on the force—and how happy he’d been. Then he thought of the mess he’d made of his life since. He recalled how his father had died. It seemed like only yesterday, but over a year had passed. It had happened in broad daylight, too. His father had called that morning, but Sean had taken up residence beneath the covers on his bed, his phone unplugged, his head as big as a watermelon. He thought of these things. He could think of little else for a long time.

Maybe he could beat his father’s demons… now his… maybe not. He poured himself the last of his CONVO-LOTION and recalled the words his father had spoken as he handed Sean his .38 Special: “Always be sure, son, before you pull the trigger.”

Author’s note: I’ve heard it said that love is not having to say you’re sorry. For some of us, however, love is having to say you’re sorry forever. It can get to be a quite a heavy burden.

Robert Kruger

Image by Igor Schubin from Pixabay – a collectin of elephant ornaments in white with pink ears and flowers on the bodies. Yes, a bit naff – I know.