There were four of us crammed into the truck bench seat: Richard, Ricky, Dick & Jim. Richard was a friend of Jim’s, from work — a fellow pole-climber at PG&E. I was Ricky — about nine years. I had a paper route & a CB radio. My handle was “Hammerhead.” My father was Dick. He worked at a Firestone dealership that sold guns & ammo, as well as tires. It was across the street from the Hotel Marysville where he’d rent a furnished room above the hotel bar during periodic separations from the family until things cooled down again. Jim was an uncle who lived just off of the state route on a Brown’s Valley ridge above the Yuba River. He laughed with a high-pitched cackle & packed his own shotgun shells in his garage. He hunted anything. He also ran a brief side-business called High Country 4WD with Richard. They sold off-road accessories out of a former auto repair place at the base of a levee in downtown Marysville. Next door was the Bok Kai temple, built by Chinese immigrants in the 1850s with an altar facing the Feather River to protect the town from flooding.
The late-November two-lane we were on that evening was mostly plowed. So were Richard, Dick & Jim by the time they’d loaded the truck in late afternoon for a crapulous run to cut free yuletide firs in the Sierra foothills. Jim put a chainsaw in the truck bed & a .410 in the interior gun rack, then got behind the wheel. I sat beside him, left of the floor shifter. Dick got in next. Last was Richard, who clutched a cluster of full or partial beer rings as he squeezed in & slammed the passenger door a few times until it caught, packing us in even closer.
It was fully dark by the time the felled trees were tossed in the truck bed over pop-top empties & laughter when any one of the three would inevitably fall in a drift or slip on the icy roadway, as if taking turns. Once all had fluidly piled in, Jim bucked a snow bank in a slushy 4WD near-spin U maneuver. The heater was on max & the windows were down when Richard crushed a spent can, tossed it out & twisted to reach behind us at the gun rack. The headlights V’d ahead between berms as Jim giggled between sips from a beer & placed it between his thighs when reaching over me to shift with the drinking hand. Dick popped open another as Richard rested the barrel on the window ledge, pointed loosely ahead for when a speed limit or deer xing sign would appear in the V. Some signs were untouched as we approached — others were already pocked with buckshot or bullet dimples. Whichever, Richard would lean out, balanced on his ribs, & pull the trigger as we passed. Laughter faded in from the temporary deafness of the blast. The sharp gunpowder scent dissipated through the windows, replaced by the motor oil smell from the heater vents. Richard reloaded a few times until we turned back onto the state route, then leaned the barrel against the dash & felt the floorboards for a beer ring.
Marysville hasn’t flooded since the temple was built. They host a parade every year, as they have since the 1850’s, to celebrate. A few months after the tree run, Jim & Richard entered a topless jeep in the Bok Kai parade, their business name on a roll bar banner. They let me ride along, waving at spectators. Dick moved away from Marysville. The Firestone store closed a few years later after someone made a purchase & then opened fire.
I can smell it! 💥
Perforators.Thats what we called them. I like this.