Shoot OUT in the Desert

Childproofing a house, car safety seats, and helicopter parenting weren’t part of my boyhood. Mine was full of freedom and adventure. Bronco-busting rides in the back of pickup trucks and helmetless motorcycle trips were considered privileges to a youngster in the 50s. Drinking out of garden hoses was preferred to going in the house for over-fluoridated water in a glass. It tastes better from the old rubber hose. The jet stream blasting your face and clothes without concern for spilling was refreshing and unrestricted.

At the age of six and three-quarters, my big-eared, freckled, red-headed self was left in the dubious care of my uncles for the weekend so I could get to know the four brothers from the heartland. I loved spending time with my mother’s side of the

family. They were interesting, entertaining, and unpredictable.

The brothers and a close friend Duffy had been drinking since midafternoon, a usual Saturday. Bored and restless with the usual banter, it was suggested they drive out to the desert and shoot jackrabbits and show me how to shoot a rifle. I remember how fortunate I felt to be included in the adventure.

They packed cases of Lucky Lager into the trunk, and six of us piled into an old green Chevy, a bomb of a car. The unruly bunch included Uncles Jack, Carl, Clyde, Kenny, and their good friend Duffy whom I thought of as one of my uncles for a long time - and me. Mostly in their 20’s and Kenny in his late teens.

Along with the AM radio with one rattling speaker, they all bellowed tunes such as "Volare" and "Purple People Eater." The mono radio blasted, and the old bench seats squeaked with every dip. Some tunes brought on the urge to horn honk the rhythm.

We rumbled out to the Mojave Desert with an occasional jarring bump that was exaggerated by old worn shocks. Rolled up in their t-shirt’s sleeves were soft packs of Pall Malls and Lucky Strikes. Singing out of tune and chain-smoking, the car with an acrid cloud. No thoughts of whether the kid could breathe. I didn’t complain as my eyes watered and I coughed and tried to sing along.

At dusk, we turned off the highway onto a dusty road. It soon became a skinny trail of mounds and shallow valleys. A cloud of dust behind us, I ricochet between Duffy and Kenny as they cursed and laughed as heads banged against the car's roof when the old jalopy hit large ruts.

The tank slowed to a crawling roll to stay within the limits of the beam of the headlights. I felt safe and excited sandwiched between my heroes.

Radio off, the Chevy weaved along the dusty dirt road by the faint light of the small moon. They stopped and lifted the trunk. More warm jostled beers foamed skyward when the can opener punctured the top. They slurped off the foam and spewed it

on each other. 

Then the guns came out. Each man had their own weapon as they argued for positions on the now-transformed assault vehicle. One lay on top of the front hood and another on the roof with rifles. Jack and the others leaned out the windows with their handguns. Starting down the rocky road again, but now with the headlights off, we inched along the desert road.

It was all new and strange to me. I was tired and sleepy, but the atmosphere was tense, and my eyes were wide open as Carl maneuvered the car around large ruts and boulders by the faint moonlight with car lights off.

Someone hollered, "RABBIT!" The bright headlights popped on, and the little animal froze ten yards down the road. They all fired at once. It scared the heck out of me, but still, I strained over the front seat to see what was happening. I hung on the back seat, paralyzed by the sound of a volley of explosions, ejected shell casings, and the smell of spent powder. They fired for ten seconds, but it felt like an hour barrage. It seemed that there were but a couple rabbit feet remaining of the lil’ creature. They argued over who hit it the most. After the fear subsided, I felt deep regret for the hopeless

hapless hopping bullseye. 

Again, creeping along in the moonlight, we stopped only for beer breaks. Night slowly turned to dawn, and we stopped just outside a small canyon. Drinking all day and night, now seemed like a good time for target practice. But first breakfast of more warm beer and sandwiches of Wonder Bread, mustard, and bologna. Empty

steel cans clanged and echoed in the canyon as bullets bounced them along the desert floor.

A shot rang out in the distance, and a small dust cloud rose simultaneously near the car. I hadn't noticed, but Uncle Clyde had slipped around the hill and climbed to the top of the ridge. He fired repeatedly, each shot closer to one of my uncles and the car. Carl and Jack fired back in the direction of the shot which was hard

to determine as each bang echoed around the canyon walls. Kenny grabbed me and rushed me behind a ridge of boulders further from the action. We watched as my uncles exchanged fire.

They intended to get close, but not so close as to hit anyone. Duffy ducked behind the car and fired at the hill. Eerily they were all laughing as Clyde shouted something from above. His return fire hit the car and another shot severed the radio antenna off the fender. Now I'm scared. I didn't understand what they were doing.

I had seen the crazy and wild in them, but not like this. On more than one occasion, my uncles scaled the backyard fence to steal tools from the police station garage on the other side of their yard. They often had fist fights that Grandma put an end to with only a few words. They always seemed to stop short of hospitalizing anyone.

When the car got hit again, someone yelled TRUCE! I imagine they had a sober thought. That car was our way out of this desert, and they shouldn’t kill the car. Abruptly, it all stopped. Kenny assured me that no one was hurt. Out of beer and ammo, we

returned home stopping frequently to fill the leaky radiator.

I learned a valuable lesson from that outing. The kind of lesson only an uncle can pass on. When hunting rabbits, always remember to wear body armor.