This is an incident alluded to in my Evicted post.
I was getting ready for high school one morning in my freshman or sophomore year, brushing my teeth just before heading out the door, when there came an almost ear-splitting POW! sound. After the shock passed I realized it was a partially ear-splitting sound. A piece of wood from the wall behind me had sliced into the bottom part of my right ear where the lobe meets the jawline. I hadn’t yet figured out what had happened, and turning around to see a jagged bullet hole in the wall didn’t do a lot to diminish the sense of unreality that filled the bathroom.
When I finally did realize that it was my dad’s pistol that had discharged, I wondered where the bullet had gone. I realized further that, had it travelled in a straight line, I should be shot. I’d never been shot before, but I always imagined it to be quite painful. Certainly more than my ear hurt. And yet I found myself running my hands over my clothes looking for blood anyway. Finding none, I was even more confused. Where had the bullet gone?
If I hadn’t been shot, then the sink or the opposite wall must have been. The wall hadn’t, but there was a nick in the porcelain of the sink slightly left of center that led to a small indentation in the inner wall of the tub and, eventually, to the spent round resting in the bottom.
Following the trajectory from the pistol to the wall to the sink, I guesstimated that I was one, maybe two inches from having my nuts shot off. And all the Liberals said…
“I told you so!”