Bulls-Eye

Shouldn't have done it. I knew it was wrong even as I let the rubber band fly. This was a dumb idea. Bam! I hit her right in her hind end. Boy, oh boy could I tell that stung, not just by the scream that echoed through Target, but by the resounding "thwap" of the binder ricocheting off those stretched, threadbare jeans.

I had found the rubber band on the floor in sporting goods. I was just playing with it, stretching it back and forth, twirling it on my finger, passing time. I didn't intend to shoot anyone. I had moved to the check out line and was day dreaming. Three or four people were ahead of me. I was staring off at the candy rack just waiting my turn. That's when I noticed her, bending over, perusing the women's magazines. She had one of those prominent protruding derrieres that tends to dominate the scenery.

I didn't see what I should have, a fellow human being, I saw a target, and I fired without thought, and without warning. I  know, I'm sorry, but that heiney was just placed there so perfectly and the binder was right there in my hand. Frankly, I had an almost Pavlovian response. I just stretched that tan piece of rubber as far as I could and let it fly. SMACK! It hit her like an old school Russian missile.

She instantly straightened up and leapt into the air, belting out a high-pitched shriek like nothing I'd ever heard before. She spun around, absolutely livid, eyes bulging, mouth agape. I turned around too, the other way, wanting so to sell the notion that I had had nothing to do with this.

My God, I knew it was wrong, so wrong I felt I couldn't possibly allow myself to be associated with the act. I turned and pretended not to notice her. I couldn't take responsibility for this boorish display, this contemptible violation of every rule of decorum.

But I wasn't thinking here either. Pretending not to notice only works when what's just occurred isn't obviously noticeable.  Every other pair of eyes in the vicinity had turned toward this suddenly enraged female, who had just pierced the retail air with her whoop. I, as it turns out, was the only one NOT looking her way, shining a spotlight on myself as the obvious culprit.

Fool. Oh God, what a fool. She knew I was the one immediately, and everyone else knew she knew when she shouted, "What in the hell did you do that for, you son of a bitch?"

"Do what?" I said, offering the single worst come back in the English lexicon.

"You know damn well what," she said. "I'm reporting you to a cop, you sick freak."

She quickly walked toward a Target security guard yelling loudly and waving her arms to get his attention. That's when I did the only thoughtful, wise and reasonable thing I had done all day. I ran. I mean I sprinted out of that store like a Kenyan track star on amphetamines. I may have still been running the next afternoon, I don't know, but I ran until I could run no more.

What possesses a man to willfully get himself into deep trouble when it would be so easy to avoid it? Did a quiet simple peaceful Sunday afternoon not appeal to me? Why willingly court embarrassment and retribution?  These are questions I'm asking myself now, in the comfort and warmth of my home, seated by the fire, drink in hand.

I don't always know why I do the things I do. I do know this: I have urges. Not sound urges, not grounded, noble and reasonable urges, odd and clearly troubling urges.

Take for instance what happens to me when I'm seated behind a bald man. Not a man with thinning hair, mind you, a man whose head is completely bare and shining in the glow of overhead lighting. Whether I'm on a bus, in church, at a concert, if I'm seated directly behind that large gleaming dome, I just want to smack it, and not lightly either. I have no idea why. I just so want to give it a giant, open-handed slap, and yet I know this would result in unnecessary duress and a sudden change in the peaceful course of my day.

Have I followed through with this urge? Not yet. I've resisted successfully for years now. But one day, much as with the woman and the rubber band, I'm going to be in one of those perfect storm situations and will just unload. I pray I don't hurt the man, I pray he doesn't hurt me. I pray eye witnesses have some understanding and empathy, though I know that's asking a lot. I pray I'm as fast a sprinter then as I am now. But the day is coming when my resistance will weaken and I will finally crack. That bald head planted in front of me will feel the mighty swing of my right hand. I won't hit the hairless melon right away. The violence will commence after a good hour or more of that shiny dome taunting me, teasing me. Suddenly I'll no longer be able to take it. I'll no longer tolerate the temptation, and will give in to the weaker angels of my nature.

BAM! That head will get smacked and  smacked hard.  I'll know it's wrong the moment I do it, sure as my hand comes down in that glorious arcing roundhouse.  I'll know it's wrong and I'll do it anyway.

Lord, forgive me, I know not why I do it. You put these urges in me, didn't you? Where else did they come from? I didn't seek them. In the afterlife have mercy on me and know that I'm no different than one smoking the additional cigarette after swearing to have quit, no different than the dieter cheating with the French silk pie. We all want to be good, we want to do right, but life is a minefield. We're getting through the best we can. Have pity on us. Or do something about baldness. What was the point of inventing that anyway? You might as well have painted a target on those noggins. Actually, one bulls-eye shaped birth mark and I'll know your sanctioning this whole thing. What do you say? Can you make a birth mark like that? Two red circles? I'll take it from there.