Prompt 20: Boys With Guns

When life was simpler and a kid with a toy gun wasn't tagged as a future mass murderer, my friends and I would play every sort of shooting game you can think of. Cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, and definitely army. It was ingrained in us somehow. Deep in our testosterone filled boy blood. Like bacon or loud car engines. We would get that urge, dress up in camouflage from head to toe, and charge onto the battlefield of our front lawns or backyard woods. We had no fear of being taken by a crazy person or getting lost. Back then, everyone knew one another and crazy people only lived in the cities anyways. We were free to roam and free to be boys. Here in rural America, with our evil toy firearms, we learned about friendship, teamwork, and the honesty of a old fashioned gun fight.

One occasion that comes to mind took place one evening at the apartment complex where we all lived. Somehow, over the years, we had accumulated a myriad of army camo and paraphernalia. We suited up, each of us choosing whatever pair of pants or jacket fit the best, grabbed one of the plastic guns or wooden guns we had made on a band saw, and we headed outside into the late, fading sunlight. We split ourselves into two teams and headed to opposite sides of the property. My team was outmatched, however, five to three. The four on the other team were not as “experienced” at imaginary guns and convinced another to join their team to make it fair. Fine, we thought. We would have to employ some superior tactics in order to win this game. And I had just the thing in mind.

The sun was almost down at this point and our eyes began to adjust. I always had supreme confidence in my own ability to “win,” (we didn't really keep a score). Our reward was the satisfaction that came with killing the opponent. Of course, as soon as they were “dead” and laying on the ground, they would get up and run away with a ten second grace period in which they could not be shot again. Our rules were simple and mostly successful. We had no real ammo anyways. If the person across from you yelled out “bam,” you were dead. Our gun games were the poster child for the honor system.

My plan for victory would take advantage of the dwindling sunlight and inexperience of the other team. It was a location that no one would expect, where I could simply lie and wait for the pray to stumble into my trap. On this night, that spot was high up in a tree behind my friend Chris' house. It was so dark back there that no one would ever see me, even after I shot them and they lay on their back, staring up into the foliage.

I stayed up their most of the night, shooting people, usually the same people, as they would pass beneath me. I must have killed a dozen of the other team that had only four or five members. But my domination would come to an end after a few of them all charged me at once (curse their teamwork) and killed me. I pretended to fall out of my perch, slowly letting myself down branch by branch, finally reaching the bottom and dropping myself the remaining five feet or so to the grass. They stood over me and cheered and taunted which was largely business as usual. I then shot up off the ground and ran off following our spoken rulebook of a ten second grace period. They too took off in the other direction.

We finally made our way inside, a little sweaty, after a few residents called our parents and complained about the noise so late. But the damage had already been done. We tallied up kills and our team had won. Experience beats youth every time was one of the many lessons that night. Those games back then shaped us. They molded us. Not into killers as many adults are now supposing of any child holding anything even shaped like a gun. But our games helped fashion young men who understood teamwork and honesty. Lessons that stay with you longer than the sweet taste of victory from an evening of play. Though, personally, that taste stayed with me for at least a week.