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Pull

By Ryan Kim

I bought a gun today. No bullets. Just the a revolver. I got it at a pawn shop down the street from the church. The guy at the pawn shop didnt have any problems with me buying it even though I didnt have a license. I made a mental note to tell the congregation not to go there. The owner probably thought it was for self-defense; it wasnt uncommon for drunks around the neighborhoods to come and harass you for fun. The revolvers not shiny or clean like the guns you see in the movies. Theres a bit of rust on the handle and inside the barrel, maybe some water got into it somehow. I imagine the previous owner standing on the ledge of a bridge near a calm river with the gun to his temple, standing there because of his indecisiveness on how to end his life. Maybe he jumped and then pulled the trigger, an impressive feat, or perhaps he pulled the trigger and fell into the water. In my fantasy, the gun is still in his hand as he sinks to the bottom and is washed away in the current. The gun looks aged and worn down from being pawned numerous times. With its solid black handle, short barrel, and empty cylinder, it looks like one of those guns that cops keep taped to their ankles. Maybe it was used by a cop once when he was undercover on a drug deal, they made the mistake of not searching his ankles and he was ready to blast them away when

they found the wire on him, maybe the gun saved his life. Different characters come into my fantasies every time I look at the gun; the previous owner on the bridge was probably a student whose parents always made his decisions. His parents decided what college he would go to, what he would study, who he would marry, and he had enough. The cop was probably an unsung hero, who left behind a pretty wife, two kids, and a mortgage before he could rip the tape off his ankle. The gun still makes me nervous and I hold it in both of my hands as if I were examining it for prints. Big guns freak me out; thank God its not a Dirty Harry gun or else Id never touch it. The only other time of my life when I did touch a big gun was because I had to. My father made me. It was for display mostly and when I showed my obvious fear of the long rifle, my father decided to defeat the fear in my eyes by making me hold it. I remember his stone cold eyes ignite with a fury when I dropped the gun in tears. He told me to put it back up on the display hooks or hed make me carry it around with me wherever I went. The only other real memory I have of my father was the time we went hunting, we didnt even use rifles. I was twelve years old and he mustve liked guns better as decoration because that day we brought bows and arrows. He had made it himself, carving the bow out of a part of an old tree he chopped down behind our house. He sharpened the branches of that same tree into arrows. No fruit on that tree, but at least it had a use, he said. The wood peels fell onto our grass and the smell of dead wood wafted over to me as he sculpted sitting on a rocking chair he also had carved. I wanted to take the bow and arrows and pretend to be an Indian, so my father could be John Wayne out to get me, but I knew better than that. The next day, we drove out early in the morning to a forest nearby; I gazed out at the passing scenery of pine trees and the thick fog that appeared to arise from the earth as we drove in silence. My fathers station wagon

squeaking along the windy road, absorbing any bumps along the way. When we arrived, my father made me carry my bow and the quiver of arrows he had whittled the day before. I made quite a ruckus in the quiet forest; my father only had to look at me and I made sure to watch my footing. Not even a twig would be snapped without his permission. We scouted around until we found a good spot to wait in. I had hoped my father would climb up a tree with a wooden spear and jump down to impale a wild boar like Rambo. Instead, we waited. We waited for what seemed like hours, my fathers silence meant that I had to be silent. He leaned against an old, dead log, remaining motionless like a wooden statue. It was as if he was a part of the log itself, I fought the temptation to poke him with my bow, just to see if he had life in him. But it was only a few minutes before my father spotted an offering worthy of killing. There was so much blood. Thinking of the blood still makes my skin crawl and my mind quickly comes back to my grey office, my uneven desk, and the ritual before me. I open the cylinder to make sure that its empty, half-expecting a bullet to be in the chamber, but there is none. I roll the cylinder listening to the rapid clicks before snapping the cylinder back into the chamber. I hold the gun and scan around my office because I feel Im being watched, now more than ever before, but there is no one in this crowded room. My desk takes up half of the space and on it sit books that Ive allowed to pile up over the few years Ive been a pastor. There are three stacks of books, categorized into different genres: classic Christian literature such as Pilgrims Progress and Confessions; fiction by Dostoevsky and OConnor; and corny, modern Christian books that come off more as self-help books. The latter category is piled up higher than the rest as members of my congregation thought I could use inspiring words by famous pastors of mega-churches to encourage my walk with the Lord. Im sure they wanted me to take a hint, This is the way you should preach. Short, concise phrases that everyone will

get. Believe it and you can do it. Imagine it and it will happen. I mentioned one time these pastors had nothing to do with the Bible and were more concerned with money than God. The next thing I knew the senior pastor came to my closet of an office telling me to apologize to the entire congregation. I did, and lied saying that I would read the books in appreciation, but they just sit pretty on my desk, so whenever a member comes in they can hope in vain my preaching will become what they desire it to be. The guilt of deception and lying pressed down on me like chains, so I went to confess to my priest after that, but the guilt remains. No pictures hang on my walls or sit on my desk because I dont like thinking of my past mistakes. I find pictures to be reminders of a flawed past, cemented by frames and fake smiles. All that hangs on my wall is a calendar that was given to me this past New Year, which I use to count down the days to Ash Wednesday, so I can remind myself to tell everyone to give up something for Lent. As I lay back in my computer chair, I see the calendar is marked in red. Im reminded its Good Friday, and I put the gun to my temple. The coolness of the barrel on my skin is always refreshing, but the grit of the rust quickly takes away that pleasure. The thought that I should be preparing for tonights sermon passes through my mind and then I breathe in deeply as the rush goes through me like a breath of fresh air. I forget about the sermon, all of my focus is on the gun at my head and my finger on the trigger. My life doesnt flash before my eyes, but all of my memories flash white and hot like Im looking at the sun. My heart beats faster as my breathing turns into panting. I cock back the hammer and I suddenly remember hearing from somewhere that youre supposed to squeeze the trigger, not pull it. Squeeze the trigger. That thought distracts me momentarily from the high, but it comes back as I close my eyes, and pull the trigger. The hammer hits the empty chamber and clicks. I breathe out slowly to savor the moment, a moment when I go absolutely blank,

where my mind is an empty canvas and I dont feel the weight on my shoulders. The burden that lies so heavily on me goes away in that one single moment and I feel alright, but it never lasts. I open my eyes and put the gun in my lap; my hand shoves away a stack of books to reveal my desk clock. The clock hasnt worked in a year, so the short hand is permanently fixed on the six and the long hand on twelve. The same member who gave me the calendar offered me a new clock, but I refused. The dead clock was a gift from Morty, a friend I had grown up with in the church. We went to Catholic school together and Morty was the rebellious one while I leeched off any aura of coolness that he emanated. One day we skipped class to go eat off campus and I justified it to my mother saying that we had finished all of our work for the school year and were reduced to watching John Hughes movies in class. In actuality, I was the only one who finished the work, while Morty was nearly held back, not only because of the missing assignments, but because he had so many unexcused absences. One more wouldnt hurt I assumed. This was one of the rare times that I had chosen to skip with Morty and I had just turned 18. Morty decided to celebrate my coming of age by taking me to an adult video store. Its a rite of passage, dude. Dont worry about it; its just a vini... viniiii... venial sin, Morty finally said. He was proud of himself for remembering that one, but he was wrong, it was a cardinal sin, one of the seven deadly ones. It was near the end of the school year before we went off to college, so I said a hail Mary and humored him by getting into his car. We drove in Mortys car, a 1990 Honda Civic with paint so faded that you couldnt tell what color it was before. It looked slightly like charcoal when he had it, but Morty loved it because it was his. As we squealed out of the parking lot of the school, Morty made it known that he was skipping, I ducked down making sure no one saw me leave, but Morty didnt let me off.

HEY! Look who we got here! I got ol Saint Nick and he aint eva coming baaaaaaack! I didnt protest because it was true. I never wanted to come back, especially not after what happened next. When we were out of view of the school, I lifted up my head and gazed at the little stores off the street. Most of them were going out of business, times were hard in the neighborhood. The rows of strip malls were in decay; red bricks turning into chalky white, neon open signs flickering into nothing. It was all dead, all except for one. The adult video store was off a main road near our neighborhood and many parents complained about it being an eyesore to a generally clean and moral town. It was really the wives, who complained mostly because they had accidently found their husbands stash of porn in their respective dens or offices. The store even had a drive thru because it used to be a bank; the same suction tube used to deposit milk money was now used to rent suck up dirty movies. We drove down the street to the store and as we pulled in, I asked him if we could go through the drive thru. What? Why? exclaimed Morty. Its faster, I tried to reason. But, thats the whole point of a porn shop, Nicky. Its like a bookstore, Morty put the gear in park in the middle of the road. You dont have to buy anything; you can just read in the store. Well I mean you cant jack off or nothin, but going in there is like getting a peep for free, Mortys eyes suddenly got big. Its like a strip club dude, we should just go to a strip club. Morty put the car into reverse. What? No! Park the car, Ill go in.

Youre so gullible, man. You know I dont have money for a strip club. Alright, out the car, Morty commanded. He parked right in front of the store and the automatic seat belts lurched forward as he shut his car off. The store stood before me like a cathedral, vast and unsearchable within. I imagined unfathomable depravities inside that awaited me to gaze upon, but with some resolve I determined to keep my eyes forward and to keep an indifferent demeanor. I sighed as I opened the squeaky door and stepped out of the car. My heart pounded as I realized I was still in my school uniform and took off my tie and jacket. Morty was already at the door, holding it for me. He couldnt hide his joy when he saw my downcast eyes and halted steps toward the door. My heart pounded approaching the door and I breathed in chilly air before Morty grabbed my arm and pulled me in. The cool air hit me as Morty led me through and a clerk welcomed us to the store, taking note of our uniforms. You guys from St. Paul up the road? asked the clerk. I swallowed a lump, but Morty didnt lose a step. Yeah, a lot of guys from St. Paul come here? asked Morty. Hell yeah, you kids keep me in business. Let me know if you need any help. The clerk gave us a big grin and we moved along. Morty smiled and began looking through the aisles as if there was something specific he was looking for. Everything caught my eye at this point. I tried to keep my eyes downcast and remembered that we had just gone over the cardinal sins in Sunday school this past week. My teacher had gone into great detail over each of the seven deadly sins, but when it came to lust he simply said, Get through it. Those words echoed in my mind as the naked bodies on the video

boxes surrounded and closed in on me. I quickly looked for Morty and kept close to him. I tried not to look at the bodies; I tried looking at the faces, the eyes of the actors and actresses on the boxes, but my eyes were drawn to their bodies. Just get through it, just get through it, I told myself, but then I saw her. She was burned into my mind and the damage was done, I couldnt take my eyes off of her. The room grew smaller and my heartbeat got faster and faster until Morty grabbed me. Alright, dude we gotta bounce. The master is getting restless. You kids either buy or get out. This aint a peep show. Go jack off at home, you little perverts, the clerk yelled. What, its ok for you to jack off behind your counter and eat Cheetos, but we cant look around, asshole? Whatd you say, you little bitch? The clerk got up from behind the counter. Morty dragged me and we ran out the door with Mortys middle finger imparting a final farewell to the clerk. Try coming back in here again, mother... We were in Mortys car and he squealed out in reverse before hitting a pothole and we jumped up in our seats as Mortys car hit the pavement. Not bad, right? asked Morty. Next time were going to a strip club, he joked as we drove towards a McDonalds; I remained silent, in reverence of her. The one image that caught my eye and held it was of a girl that was fully clothed, a rare sight, with her back turned, dressed in a plaid shirt and short shorts. She had brunette hair, dark eyes, and legs that didnt end. At that moment I didnt care if it was a cardinal sin or not, it branded itself in my mind for later comfort

and it is still clear as day. Every time I brought up the image in my mind, it seemed to add more weight on my shoulders. The accumulation of images didnt stop there. I was at Mortys house one day in the summer and we were in his room looking at old Playboys. Morty got up to go out and have a smoke while his parents were still at work, they owned a flower shop close to the school. They were kind people. Once we graduated, I came home to a giant wreath of roses standing in front of our door. It had a card on it saying, Congratulations, son. I kept that wreath as long as I could and dried out the roses, so it would last longer. I stayed in his room looking at the magazines while Morty went out to his backyard. I turned the pages gazing at magnificent figures and I got to a page of an interview with one of the models. I hadnt read anything since school ended and this was the most words on a page that I had seen since then; I figured it would be academic. The model was 19, she was in college and had dreams of becoming a full time model or actress. She said her biggest inspiration was her mother because her father wasnt around and she wanted to make a lot of money to pay back her mother for working three jobs. She popped out of the page at that moment; I stopped reading and realized that all these models, these naked girls were somebodys daughters. A lot of them didnt have fathers like this girl. What would their fathers think? Would they be in the magazine if their fathers had stayed? I felt hot tears down my face as I burned red. These girls were someones sister, cousin, girlfriend, daughters, future wives and mothers. From that moment I swore to do all I could to alleviate this burden, to purge this sin from my heart. I went to seminary hoping that working for God would repay back this debt, but the weight got heavier and heavier. I felt like an ignored child, unforgiven by his parents and looked upon with disappointing eyes. I had become my own reminder of my imperfection and my inability to be anything more. Killing myself with an empty gun became a reviving ritual for

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me, like the Eucharist, it nourished me, reminded me of my failures, and erased them, even if it was just for a moment. Morty went on to graduate from high school and go to college. He worked for a company crunching numbers day in and out, but lived for the weekend where his paychecks fueled his lusts for drink and women. Morty hadnt been to church in a long time nor did he practice any part of the faith except one. Confession. He came every week to confess his sins to me and relived the events of the previous weekend before heading out to enjoy the next one. Every Friday he would come tell me of his exploits. Its Good Friday today. I look over at my dead clock out of habit and then I hear a knock at my door. Its Morty. The gun is still in my lap, so I grab it and before I can open my desk drawer he comes in. I have the gun in my right hand, hiding it behind my desk out of his line of sight and greet him as I stick out my left hand to shake his. Hey, Father, hows it going? he asks as he shakes my hand. He always called me Father even though I was a pastor of a Luterhan church. Not too bad, I answer as I close my open drawer. Morty takes a seat in front of me and begins to tell his tale of the previous weekend. Hey, do you remember Helen? Morty asks. Helen was my ex-girlfriend, who, last I heard, was currently a missionary in China. I remember when I met Helen for the first time three years ago when I had just graduated from seminary. She represented the reason why I had chosen to be a Protestant minister rather than a Catholic priest was because I hoped to marry. I didnt have the gift of celibacy nor did I have the desire for it. I met her at a retreat that the recent graduates had to attend and after the initial welcome and congratulations we transitioned into worship. The lights dimmed and the slow,

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calm piano music began to play to get us into the right mindset. I looked up and as the light only shone on the praise band, so that they could read their music, I saw a medium sized girl with brunette hair that she wore up, dark eyes closed as in prayer, dressed moderately in a plaid shirt and jeans. My heart raced and I prayed for an opportunity to meet her. After worship we had a chance to settle into our cabins, but I spent my time looking for an opportunity to meet Helen. I hoped that she would start conversing with a person I knew and when she did I joined them as naturally as I could. Hey, Joe, great worship, right? Sorry to interrupt you guys. Hey, Im Joe, I mean hes Joe, but Im Joes friend. I nervously interjected. She smiled and Im not quite sure what she saw in me then. I wish I had asked her what it was when I had the chance, but she had told me later that she had liked me from that moment because she saw a quality in my eyes. That quality was also why she left me. But, we were inseparable for the next year. I had taken her advice to be a pursuer like God and followed her to the church that I pastor in now. I tried my best to pursue her and make her feel loved, but to her it felt more like we had something in common that we loved, like estranged parents who stayed together for their children. She gave me a pained look of momentary contentment whenever she looked into my eyes. Her eyes softened, her mouth was slightly open, and she held my hand. Things went well when she gave me that look. At other times, especially near the end of the relationship, she looked at me with blank eyes, a firm mouth, and told me I looked like I just wanted to get through our relationship instead of maintaining it. It was as if the same quality that attracted me to Helen was holding her back from what she really wanted. I feel empty inside, she once told me. Pursue God, I told her.

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No, she replied. I need to be the pursued. I tried to be the one to pursue her, but it didnt last. One day she told me that it was over. I wasnt the one she wanted in her life for the long run and that was the last I saw her. I went into a deep depression, evident by the congregation, who kept asking me to preach on good stories of the Bible like David and Goliath, not Judas hanging himself. Later, I heard that she went and got married to a missionary and went off to China to earn her keep. That was about the time I had the idea of buying a gun. Morty was still in front of me as I relived through memories of Helen. Helen died, Morty said. The burden bears its full weight on me. All the air in me goes out and I cannot utter a response. She killed herself. My mind goes blank. Everything turns white and I drop the gun. I realize what she saw in me that day. Morty hears the gun drop and asks me, Hey, what was that? Are you ok? The day when I met Helen, her eyes looking into mine, the day she left me. Her dissatisfaction and discontent met with my own. She saw the same eyes in me and it comforted her knowing that she wasnt alone, but it tore her apart because it was a constant reminder of her own imperfection. My mind goes blank and I go back to the forest with my father. Were in the woods and as I zone out staring at mushy leaves at my feet, my father, without making a sound, pulls up his bow. He takes out an arrow and lines up the groove of the arrow along the string. Gripped tight with his dry fingers, he pulls back the arrow and closes his left eye. He lets go and then I hear a cry. My father and I walk up to where the deer lies, about 10 yards out. The arrow had hit the deer in his side. Its still alive. I stare as it bleeds out the remnants of its life. My father goes up to the deer and grabs his arrow and plunges it deeper into the deer as it gives out its final cries.

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All I can remember is the blood. Like that of a sacrificial lamb pouring onto the altar of the forest floor.