 A Series About Childhood Memories |
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I Ever Did |
 Elias Castillo, left, at age 5, with older brother Frank and a girl tourist, looking very unhappy while posing for pictures in his Mexican charro costume, circa 1945. "I hated the charro costumes, despite their great elaborateness. They were made of wool, the old scratchy kind and the pants were always too tight. I also did not like the sombrero. It was way too big and kept falling off. My stepgrandfather had ordered the suits and a tailor had come and measured us, then made them. Luckily, we didn't wear them often and within a year I had outgrown mine." ... ELIAS CASTILLO |
One loaded gun & one Border Boy:
A potentially lethal combination!
By ELIAS CASTILLO
of TheColumnists.com
NEVER underestimate the
potentially deadly mischief of a child. I'm a prime example.
Parents take note.
I can't remember at exactly what age this occurred, but I know
I must not have been more than four years old. That was old enough
to be taken to cowboy movies where I had maddening genius for
remembering how the cowpunchers loaded their weapons, especially
their Winchester lever action 30-30 caliber rifles.
We lived in Calexico. Across the border, in Mexicali, my stepgrandfather
published a very successful weekly reformist newspaper and was
also the owner of a large printing shop. I grew up amid printing
presses, the smell of ink, and printers setting type by hand.
Despite large moving assemblies, power belts, giant, razor sharp,
paper cutting machines, flammable solvents and ink, I managed
to grow up without losing any of my limbs or imbibing those unnatural
fluids found around print shops.
The shop and newspaper were located in what had once been a large
and luxurious gambling casino. That was in the glamour years
of the 1930s when Mexicali was wet, California and Hollywood
were dry and the acting set used Mexicali as a gambling and wet
spot. (Silent film star idol Rudolph Valentino was married there).
Inside, there were marvelous red tiled floors. The building's
ceilings were two stories high and, toward the back of the large
space occupied by the shop, there were stairs leading to what
had once been a bandstand. Underneath it, was a former telephone
booth.
One day, while snooping around, I discovered my stepgrandfather's
Winchester lever action, octagonal barreled, 30-30 caliber rifle
that, I later learned, he had used when he was a lieutenant colonel
in Pancho Villa's 50,000-man Division of the North during the
Mexican Revolution. There it was, leaning against a back corner
of the former telephone booth, gathering dust amid bundles and
stacks of documents likewise gathering dust.
I tried to move it, but it was too heavy. It was as tall as I
was. I pulled on the lever action while the rifle was still upright.
I had to use both hands to get it to move. First one way, then
the other way to close it, thought not enough to cock it.
I told no one I had found it. A plan grew in my mind.
While previously rummaging in the office closet, I had found
a box of bullets. To this day, I remember pushing aside clothes
and other items and finding an aging green box with yellow lettering.
I pushed it open and saw the large bullets that looked just like
those that the cowboys pushed into a slot on the side of the
rifle. I closed it quietly. I told no one.
No one paid attention to my explorations. As long as I kept away
from the machinery, solvents, blades, did not disturb anything
or make a pest of myself, I had the run of the shop and could
also crawl on top of the giant stacks of large newsprint in the
back.
The secret of the rifle and ammunition was mine. Then, there
came the day I decided to unite them. I remember it as though
it happened yesterday. It is burned in my mind.
I quietly went to the closet, opened it, found the box of ammunition
which my stepgrandfather had tried to hide, but not well enough
from me. I took one cartridge out and holding it in my hand slipped
that hand into my pants pocket. I wanted that bullet in my hand,
in my pocket, and hidden from sight.
I casually walked back all the way to the phone booth. No one,
as usual, was paying attention to me. My stepgrandfather was
busy reading some document at his giant, oaken, roll top desk
that was littered with paper and had an upright phone. The printers,
meanwhile, were busy setting type or binding reports. My grandmother
was also reading something at her desk and my brother was doodling
on newsprint in the front office.
I finally made it to the former phone booth, opened the door,
slipped inside and jumped up to pull the chain that switched
on the light.
There was the rifle, beckoning to me. I left the bullet in my
pocket and reached to lift it, but it was too heavy. Very gently,
using both hands, I managed to let it slide down along the wall
and finally got it to lay on the floor with the barrel, luckily,
pointing toward the back wall.
Everything was ready. I took the bullet out of my pocket and
gently slid it into the loading slot where it disappeared. I
assumed it was loaded.
My next move was to cock it. However, there was a problem, everytime
I pulled on the lever, the rifle slid on the floor. I solved
that problem by stepping on the rifle to hold it still. Now,
I was able to lean down and, using both hands, pull the lever
all the way forward and all the way back. The gun was cocked
and loaded.
There was only one thing left to do. I did not hesitate. I pulled
the trigger.
KABOOM!
In a building in which the ceiling is two stories high, noise
reverberates mightily. The firing of the rifle did just that.
All across the interior of that very large space the explosion
created an enormous crescendo.
I jumped up and away. To say I was startled was an understatement.
I was scared out of my wits, but not over what I had done, but
the fact that I would be blamed for firing the gun if I were
found inside the booth.
I scurried outside as fast as I could. I wasn't fast enough.
By the time I was out of the phone booth, the printers had already
seen me. I imagine they were ashen faced. Who wouldn't be, after
being scared out of their wits by a gigantic boom that must have
made them think the whole building had exploded.
The printers had me surrounded. I turned my back to them and
edged toward their line. I could feel their eyes burning on my
neck. Still, better that I also look toward the phone booth as
they were (actually, they were staring at me) and assume that
I too had been startled. I knew that within moments my grandmother
would be there and without hesitation blame me. It was far better
that I try to blend in with the crowd.
"Mario," my grandmother snapped to the one of the printers,
"what happened!"
"I don't know señora. We just heard a large boom."
My grandmother stepped inside the phone booth, then quickly came
out.
"Mario, what do you smell inside the booth?" my grandmother
snapped again.
Mario carefully stuck his head in the booth and sniffed. "It's
gunpowder."
I knew it, I knew it. If the phrase "dead meat" had
been popular then, it would have been appropriate for what was
going to happen to me.
Next my stepgrandfather stepped inside the booth and quickly
and carefully scanned the entire space. He found the rifle, he
too sniffed the gunpowder, and he found the large hole, the size
of a small fist, that the bullet had made.
I knew that my stepgrandfather's first concern was gratefulness
that I had not been hurt. Not so, my grandmother. I knew what
was coming. She turned to me.
"Did you do this?" she asked angrily.
"No," I answered sheepishly. And shook my head a thousand
times, to emphasize my innocence. She didn't buy it.
"Yes, you did!"
It was all over. I could not respond. I just waited for my horrible
finish.
She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me toward one of the two
windowless restrooms in the shop. She pushed me in, snapped off
the light, slammed the door shut and shouted, "You stay
in there until you learn how to behave."
In the background, I heard my stepgrandfather's voice say, in
a pleading tone, "But , , , ,"
"He could have killed himself, he's got to learn,"
my grandmother said, cutting him off.
I slowly moved to the toilet, made sure the lid was down and
slowly and quietly sat down. I sighed with relief and vowed never
to do anything like that again. I sat quietly and simply waited
fearing that if I made any noise the punishment would increase
tenfold. I could do time in a darkened bathroom any day of the
week.
Outside, I could hear my grandmother and grandfather discussing
my deed. "But how could he find the bullets and know how
to load the rifle and then cock it?" my grandmother asked
anxiously.
"I can't understand it, he's so small, he couldn't have
lifted it. He must have fired it as it lay on the floor . . .
" my grandfather added and then their voices faded away.
After awhile, the door opened, it was my grandmother. "Are
you alright?" she asked in a soft voice. I nodded affirmatively.
"Alright, you can come out and don't you ever do anything
like that again."
That was the end of the incident. It was never mentioned again.
When I married, Cathy and I decided to remain childless. We would
instead indulge ourselves in travel, and doing anything whenever
we felt like it. Children were simply too dangerous.
But for parents, take heed from this story. A loose child is
a loose cannonball with a sputtering fuse.
© 2001 by Elias Castillo. The photo is the property of Elias
Castillo. All rights reserved.
You can comment on this column or contact Elias Castillo with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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