Cop’s Gun

Gregory takes the left out of the supermarket, and French takes the right to enter. A minor collision occurs between them and as the contents of Gregory’s grocery bag opens up on the foyer floor, he thinks about his impulses.

Oh, my! I’m so sorry! I really should watch where I’m going.

He drops to one knee, collecting his five lemons and single can of La Croix.

It’s no problem, I’m sorry, it’s only my lemons, they can take the fall.

Gregory was always seeking repentance, even for the things that weren’t his fault. “I’m sorry” escaped his mouth more times a day than his ex-therapist would like. Gregory was working on his impulses. In all areas of his life, he couldn’t control himself. Women, booze, money, you name it, and Gregory had a problem. Sometimes, when he saw a cop in public, he had this unnerving urge to reach for his sidearm. He had no plans or real intention to do anything with it. It was like watching himself on a stage where he imagined his hands reaching out for the Cop’s gun just to see what would happen.

I’m sure we have all felt this at one time or another. Maybe, when you stop for pedestrians in a crosswalk, you remember you’re as tired as the day is long. Maybe you wore those cowboy boots that, while complimenting nearly any outfit, leave your dogs barking by the end of the day; maybe you see yourself shifting that tired foot from the brake to the gas pedal and sending the urban deer flying through the air. Of course, you would never do this, but what is that urge?

French smiled at Gregory and confronted her own impulses. Much of life is impulse control. Gregory always felt the need to express himself truthfully. This quality left him lonely in most cases of romantic interactions. He was formidable, and some even called him “dateable,” but never by those who would actually date him. Gregory said how he felt because that’s how he earnestly believed a man should portray himself. A conundrum of sorts. Gregory was impulsive, and when a thought entered his mind, he needed to share it. He is overly sweet, overly thoughtful, overly affectionate, and more than eager to give himself away. He thought anything else was a lie, he was no good at games, no good at matters of the heart, no good at all.

With French in front of him, he fell in love. His impulse rose up from his toes to his mouth, and he said, with an entire foot in his mouth,

What’s your name?

French.

I’m Gregory.

Nice to meet you, Gregory.

What’s the difference? He fires his impulses off like he sees himself firing shots from the Cop’s gun he wrestled away in his mind. Gregory knew his impulse would kill him. He would either die a physical death at the hands of law enforcement, or he would die an emotional death by putting himself so far out that he cannot reel himself back in. He wondered which death was worse…

French breezed past him like a sheet on a line in the dead of summer. He dried quickly. She passed him, and he looked back as she entered the store. Gregory thought it was good to deny the impulse of expressing himself like it was good to ignore the impulse towards the Cop’s gun. He never actually believed that people were telling him the truth. While not at all commentary on the integrity of others, it was more of a personal view. Gregory did not believe anyone could genuinely love him the way he desired. The few times he held love in his hand, he held it like one would hold a baby bird; his impulse was to crush it, and that’s what he did.

Those who care for him would tell him to take it slow; they would almost coach him, like an intermediary trying to negotiate with his vessel and the ocean. Gregory never listened and spent much of a year trying to recover as a result. Not only a walking impulse, he also thinks himself to death; he thinks himself into a death spiral of invasive thoughts and low self-esteem. Steeping in assumptions, he takes to drink in most cases, satiating the impulse for instant gratification, trading days away for an inescapable moment where he feels like he might burst if he doesn’t vent off the anxiety of self-hatred. Gregory is a flame in an overcrowded oil field on a West Texas plain. Burning day and night, trying desperately to keep it together. Quitting this or that vice in order to better collect himself in his more sober moments, then eventually returning to them when he inevitably finds himself singular and alone again.

He’s a disaster, and no amount of early morning lemon water can change it.

I would be remiss if I didn’t speak to his more qualifying qualities. Gregory loved hard, and while it was detrimental, he rarely had regrets of inaction. Gregory was sure of the path if he let his heart lead the way. In his mind, a woman should be sought, yearned for, and fully informed of intentions. When a man knows, he knows; when Gregory knows, he knows. Despite his impulse and lack of control, he was exactly who he thought he should be.

While dying countless deaths in the emotional, at least he never reached for the Cop’s gun. I suppose that’s how one may practice—heartbreak on repeat, an endless playlist of overindulgence. You see, the mistakes he makes can be learned from, and maybe one day he’ll catch on; the point is to keep trying even if you fail miserably and take note of your impulse. Recognizing it in real-time is the challenge. The world and all its dilemmas just seem so much easier for others, and maybe that’s only his perception, but what is he to do with all this proof?

Hell, this entire story is just one big impulse, and nothing really matters.

Cover photo: Sorrento Lemons - Irina Sztukowski