Young Man's Land

Young Man’s Land

by Luke Mott

It was my 13th birthday; one of the years my birthday landed on the weekend. My mom did the best she could to throw me a party. Somehow, she managed to round up the entire neighborhood and get the day off. She worked two, sometimes three jobs; usually, waitressing jobs or filling in as a receptionist. The ’90s weren’t a very progressive time for female employment opportunities. If they were, my mother would have ruled the world. 

“My little man’s growing up,” she said, holding back the tears in her eyes. “I wish your father were here. He’d be so proud,” then the tears would fall, and I’d hide my eyes, too embarrassed to look. The truth was, I didn’t want her to see me cry too; men weren’t supposed to cry.

  The box was heavy, wrapped in Star Wars wrapping paper; that’s how I knew it was the big present. Every year, she got me one big gift wrapped in whatever geeky obsession held my fascination at the time; she was good like that. She understood that’s where my real friends were. I barely ever got her a card. Today, thinking of all the ass grabs, cuss outs, and double shifts she had to tolerate to afford my birthday presents makes me ashamed to admit, I always wanted more.

She flinched when I shook it, then leaned back against the windowsill, shaking off a teasing jab from her older sister. The presents were set up at the picnic table on our back-concrete patio, under the wooden pergola. Even the shade was hot, and the neighborhood kids impatiently fidgeted. Partially from the heat, but I knew that most of them were there because their parents wanted to seem polite to the less fortunate. They probably rallied together and decided to come while attending one of their middle-class wine galas my mom never attended, being too busy supporting her ungrateful son. Either that or they were afraid of my mom’s wrath. Probably the latter; I know I am.

I ripped the edge of the package and saw it immediately, its picture peering right at me through the frayed slit in the paper. The rest of the wrapping nearly tore itself off, scattering over the picnic table. I held the box up, gawking at a gift I didn’t even know I wanted. The kids huddled around me, roused in envy. I had what they wanted, and it felt good. Most of the other parents scoffed and rolled their eyes, a fact that still makes my mother smile.

It was a desert eagle airsoft BB gun, and it was mine. The box itself was aggressive, so official looking. Television gave no justice to what one looked like up close, and it certainly couldn’t tell you how it felt. The TV was just bad guys and good guys acting out their silly shoot ‘em up games, then the bad guy falls, pretending not to breathe in a puddle of ketchup. That seemed like a boy’s game as I popped open the cardboard flaps and removed the Styrofoam sleeve. 

This was a man’s toy. It was heavy, like a hammer, a man’s tool. The grooves in the handle were rough, meant for a man’s hands. It felt like I grew by fifteen years with that one gift. I imagined stopping burglars and prowlers, hoping for a home invasion so I could protect what was mine, like a man of the house. I wanted to fight in a war, like Rambo, and take no prisoners.

After that, we became the cool, poor family. Easily exploitable, with no rules or adults, the perfect place for kids to go to let their inhibitions on a rampage. They came over to fire off a few and knock back some PBR we stole from my mom’s refrigerator. Girls would come too, “just to hang out,” they would say. I had my first kiss back then. Nothing great. An awkward church peck behind the gas station. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I just stood still as a board and leaned in with unpuckered lips. Poor girl; it must have been like kissing a dead relative.

We would all meet out in the field behind our house, back when there were fields, and lined an old log split rail fence with cans, popping them off one by one. We made games and practiced trick shots: behind the back, through the legs, eyes closed, etc. My best was seven out of ten shots, maybe twenty feet away. I started to dream about joining the armed forces, usually fantasizing that I was a sniper in WW2. If I were there, Hitler wouldn’t have lived as long as he did, I used to think. 

On one occasion, I was alone, shooting the soda cans for target practice, as I did in my free time. It’s what the real men did in the movies. My favorites were Pepsi cans. They had the little logo to aim at, like a bullseye. 

While I was aiming for my record-breaker, a crow swooped down and landed on a branch to the cottonwood tree just behind the fence. Deep in my obsessive wave of fantasy, I aimed the barrel at it, because that’s what a man does. Its black eyes fell on me as it sat perched on the branch. I felt like it was mocking me. It wanted me to do it, nearly begging me. Who was I to deny the request? 

I pulled the trigger, the air canister popped, and it fell through the foxtail barley, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Direct hit. New record. Trapped in stillness, I waited to feel like an action star, but there were no cheers or fanfare; no sounds at all, save the slight trembling of leaves. I just stood there, staring at the stillness, the feeling of nails grinding against the lining of my stomach. I could hear it rustling in the dirt, and I found myself standing over the sound, trying to see the bird through the thicket. The branches broke as I swatted frantically. I had convinced myself I was going to claim my trophy, but really, I wanted to see the horror close up. Real blood collecting in a pool under the carcass, the shattered joints of broken wings, death clouding its eyes. I wanted to smell it and feel the guilt over what I’ve done as a man felt after the kill. 

  After scraping through the bushes, I found the bird alive, barely. I can still see the way it flailed and twitched, tossing itself all over the ground, attempting to escape. It cawed, and frantically flapped its wings at the sight of me. This wasn’t what I thought a man would feel like; it hurt more than I thought it would. I felt pity for the bird, not pride. My breath fell out of my lungs and tried to squeeze its way out of my throat. I cried like a child. I hated the way it died and apologized to it, asking it not to hate me too. It stopped squirming, and stared, rolling back and forth with heavy breaths. Its eyes found me and begged for me to finish it. I raised my quivering arm, pointing the gun at it. A Pepsi logo flashed in front of my eyes, and I shot. The air cartridge shattered the silence, and I winced at the sound. The bird’s head bowed back, and after a few twitches, it stopped moving.

As I stared at the carcass in front of me, all I remember thinking was, I don’t want to be a man anymore.