It was nineteen hundred and ninety in Cottonwood, California. I was 19, decently on track, but with an “as of yet” undercooked brain, much like my cohort of other decently young people in my circle. So obviously, that fateful night meant there was a kegger at some random corrals in the middle of nowhere in an area we’ll call Smooker Smreek.
Saturday keggers were a thing that happened with enough regularity that something really remarkable had to occur to make one stand out more than 3 decades later.
This one was different. It was the usual crowd. Everyone in their social best. The boys with their brightly colored brush popper shirts, wranglers, King Rope hats, and those silly nylon belts that they let hang down their leg. There would be the occasional 501 wearer in attendance, but only of course after a thorough vetting process to make sure they weren’t too preppy. Young ladies would sport their jeans that were roughly as high as their underarms, and hair so big it needed a building permit.
The events followed the same trajectory. Someone some how procured a keg, socialize, dance, tell tall tales. Then spend the times in between the parties basking in the knowledge that you were included (I guess).
On this particular night, I had brought a guest. A more mature than me young lady who worked at the bank. She was way cooler than I would ever be. I was happy to have her along. She didn’t know the crowd, you know having gone to West Valley instead of Red Bluff. So she stayed pretty close to me. So close that when I had to make use of the facilities (a densely leaved manzanita bush), she accompanied me. There we were, peeing, chatting, when we heard the gunshot.
Nothing changes the course of events more quickly than a shot fired.
I’m not a mountain man. Nor a tactical SWAT warrior. But I have been around guns enough to know this; a shot sounds completely different when it hits flesh. That’s the sound I heard.
Chaos quickly ensued.
Back in the 90’s, it was very common for your local redneck kid to travel with a loaded rifle. You never know when you’re going to happen upon that rascally coyote who’s been feasting on old man Johnson’s baby calves. Or one of those treacherous road signs (seriously….WHY do people shoot them?!). It was one of these road rifles that had gone off.
The young man had his gun laying on the saddle-blanket covered seat of his Ford pickup. He and two other bros were getting in the truck to go somewhere. He got in the driver’s side, and as the other two got in on the passenger side, the gun was jostled and he was shot with his own .270.
The bullet went directly through both cheeks of his rump and half way through the Ford door.
I have zero idea what happened to my friend, but I was promptly part of the away team. I was in the bed of an old boyfriend’s 1971 GMC jimmy hunkered down by a yellow wheel well trying to remain calm for the young man losing blood. The open bed exposed to the summer night as we barreled down dirt roads to get to the hospital.
The shot wound guy was face down in the bed of the rig. I felt he’d want to know how our progress toward our destination. I told him “we just hit the 2nd 15 mph turn on McCoy.” Facedown, pained, and bleeding out, he still had better grip on where we were directionally than I did. He corrected me about the number of turns remaining.
I don’t know what it feels like to be shot. I imagine it hurts very badly. He handled it incredibly well. Focused breathing. Continuing to chat with me. The driver was panicked, but still able to deftly and safely get us pulled straight up to the covered entrance at Saint Elizabeth’s hospital. As the driver opened the door, beer cans tumbled to the concrete and loudly announced we were a group making questionable decisions. We reinforced every stereotype when the shot youth was unloaded from the rig.
The guy had to have surgery. Though it was his ass that was shot, it really could have killed him. The whole “just a half inch off” and colon, and instant death conversation happened. He was incredibly lucky to be alive, and the rest of us where incredibly lucky to not be in jail.
Eventually, the rescue team returned to the beer site. Reminder, this was pre-cell phones. GSW victim’s little brother was standing there alone filling up a plastic cup. We told him his brother had been shot and was at the hospital. “I wondered why the keg was out here unattended. I thought maybe there’d been an alien abduction”
Time moved on, circles of people changed, and thankfully we grew up okay. I didn’t see that guy again for over 25 years. Then, we both attended the same birthday party last year.
After brief exchanges of, “how’ve you been?” he asked “Remember when I got shot?”
Yah. Yah I certainly DO remember when he got shot.
He told me that he’d been slated to join the Army within the next week after that incident. It re-routed his plans, and the military did not become a thing for him. He did, however, go on to be a wildly successful local businessman, pilot, and a really decent human.
The whole thing served as a good reminder how fast things can change, and that it really only does take a couple decision points to completely alter a life course. Our experiences, whether they are good or bad, build on themselves to give us a certain patina that makes us who we are. I’m thankful for each thing I’ve experienced even if it just served a role as a cautionary tale.
Thanks for reading!
Bifocals and Barbells 