“College. You know.” He shrugs off the specifics. “I majored in criminal justice and minored in gunsmithing.” He peeks over at me as if waiting for my reaction.
I don’t disappoint. “That’s a thing?” I’ll have to give a character a gunsmithing degree now.
“Look.” He waves me toward his table. Some of the guns appear to belong in a museum. Others don’t look fit for any place but the dump. The latter are rusty and the wooden handles are splintered. “I’m restoring these.”
I lift my eyebrows. That’s a big if not futile job. “Will they be able to fire again?”
I once heard about someone who stole an old gun to use as a weapon, but when he fired it, he only injured himself. I should use that in a story too.
“Oh, yeah. Check out this one.” Karson leads me across the garage. There are no cars in here, only tools. “Would you believe this rifle is from the Civil War? My granddad’s friend found it in the lake while fishing.”
The weapon definitely looks like an antique, but it’s shiny and beautiful. Made new. “Can I hold it?”
“Well.” He studies the gun, then frowns at me. “It was designed without a trigger guard. I want to add one before letting anyone hold it. Sorry.”
I’m used to him saying “no” but not “sorry,” so I’m more intrigued than offended.
I glance down at the trigger in question. It sticks out without anything blocking it from getting bumped. I know not to put a finger on the trigger unless ready to fire, but I’d never thought about the importance of the little piece of metal that encloses it. I always just took it for granted.
“That could be symbolic,” I murmur.
“Symbolic?”
Do I normally talk to myself this often, and has nobody ever noticed before? “Oh.” My gaze jolts to his. We are so close. It was different when we were both looking down, but now that we’re facing each other, all that care and attention Karson lavishes on his firearms is washing over me. Like the icy lapping waves of the ocean on the Oregon Coast, it’s going to remain uncomfortable unless I back up or dive in.
As if afraid to drown in his eyes, I turn away and nod toward his guns. “The term ‘trigger’ is used when someone gets angry. A person who is easily angered might just need to add a trigger guard to their life. A missing trigger guard could be symbolic for an angry person.”
He stills. Maybe he’s not listening. Maybe he’s already been swept away by the tide tugging me his way.
I hold my breath and turn to face him again. But he’s not even looking at me. He’s studying the trigger on his gun.
Oh man. He thought I was referring to him, didn’t he? And perhaps I was.
I could use the trigger analogy in my romantic comedy screenplay. Because the best romantic comedies have depth and meaning that make the humor poignant.
But right now I don’t want to deal with angry Karson. I don’t want to upset him.
I lighten my tone. “How do you add a trigger guard?”
One of his eyebrows arches to give him a better view of my face without lifting his head to look directly at me. Perhaps he’s checking to see if I’m still talking about symbolism or his gun collection.
I smile encouragingly.
It must have satisfied, because he launches into an answer that probably could have been taken directly from his senior thesis. It comes with all the demonstration needed for a TikTok video.
He shows me the piece of metal he’s already cut out for the trigger guard. He just has to shape and polish it before attaching it to the weapon.
I’m walked through the steps for sandblasting away rust and cutting new gunstocks from wood. It’s quite a process, but I can see the catharsis in it. The poetry of restoration. What might once have been considered worthless by whoever threw it in the lake has now become a priceless collector’s edition.
I’m pondering all of this in my heart when Karson pulls out a can of gun oil. As soon as he unscrews the lid, the sweet and spicy scent sweeps over me. It’s warm but cooling at the same time.
“So that’s why you smell like cinnamon.”
He pauses the same way he did before. But this time his eyes are on me. I think they are anyway. They’re kind of shaded underneath the brim of his cap.
“I smell like cinnamon?” He speaks with hesitation.
“Yeah.” I nod so he knows it’s good. “I thought maybe you chewed Big Red.”
