Personal Narrative Essay: Unconscious Gunslingerer

Rolland Caulkins
Ms. Gist
English 12
May 7, 2018
Unconscious Gunslinger
In the winter of 2055, I lost my job. For years I had lived in a large, three room apartment on level 18B of a mostly vacant underground housing complex. Of course, the complex was not intended to be vacant, I’m sure that at one point it was intended to provide housing in the center of a bustling commercial city. Unfortunately, when business left the area, the housing couldn’t follow, leaving behind thousands of empty rooms, run down and dirt cheap.
At the time I was somewhat of a hermit. I collected countless tapes, books and CDs. Shelves full of media lined my walls, and I did nothing for days on end but consume products of a bygone era. These times were nice, and I

was never out of things to do. Every day I would wake up and do exactly as I pleased for the entire day. Unfortunately, even the laziest of people have to work. About once a week, I would get a call telling me a location and a time. I would go there and get a package from a silent, well dressed man with the air that he did not want to be there at that moment. I would seldom see the same man twice. I would keep the package in my house for an indeterminate amount of time (never opening it, of course) and between days and months later I would get another call describing a different place and time. Like clockwork I would leave, go to the place and hand the package over to another stern looking, well dressed man. After I hand over the package, neatly packed, small brown boxes would appear at my doorstep, always containing a reasonable sum of money.
I tend to be a frugal person. In those days, I ordered anything I needed via the internet, transported and delivered straight to my door. I took care to stow away a portion of the money everytime I delivered a package. I tend to take a lot of precautions, and it is always good to have money stowed away for a rainy day. This habit was picked up in another occupation a long time ago. But that was far behind me, and I was in the golden years of my life. Things were simple, I was happy, and I was oblivious to how much more complicated things were about to get.
It seemed like a normal day when I woke up.

I got a call to pick up a package in a courtyard behind an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city. I took the stairs up all 18 levels of my housing complex, like normal. Just because I’m a hermit doesn’t mean I can’t stay in shape, which, like my precaution is another habit I picked up from an older job. I took the subway from the station near where I lived, and strolled over to the pick-up location from the nearest stop. All of this was normal. Also customarily, I was carrying an old revolver. The thing was practically an antique, but it was all I needed and you can’t fault me for being cheap. High crime in the city was found in the low income, but high population areas of the city. The location I was in may have been low income, but the people who were once here were already long gone. I arrived at the pick-up location, seeing a stern looking, well dressed man standing in front of a car holding a metallic silver briefcase. Inside the car was another man of similar appearance. I was within ten paces of them when I knew there was

trouble.
Off in the distance, I heard the roar of an engine growing steadily louder.

That alone raised some red flags. The eyes of the man in front of the car grew wide, almost comically so. Things were not going according to plan. The car the man was in front of revved to life and the man rushed to the passenger door. The sound of the approaching engine was very, very close. The panicking man had opened the passenger door as the van rounded the corner. The van slammed into the rear corner of the car before the well dressed (and stern looking) driver could evade. The man entering the car was sent flying when the momentum of the van traveled through the car straight to him. Before the man hit the ground, three armed men wearing masks exited the van.
As all of this was taking place, I was frozen. Something strange was happening to me. It was as if every single cell in my body was screaming at me to move, yet I still remained stuck in place. My heart beat rapidly, my breath quickened and everything around me slowed to a crawl. I drew my pistol. The last thing I remember was clearing leather and raising my

gun.
I got to my house bruised, bloodied and exhausted. I had walked home in a haze, and as soon as I got back I collapsed on my couch. The only thing preventing me from falling asleep from sheer exhaustion was the excruciating pain I was experiencing. For a solid two minutes my mind was completely blank. I could only focus on each heartbeat, each struggling breath as the world spun around me. Time passed. As things became clear, I got up to tend to my numerous injuries. For a start, my clothes were ruined: the back of my shirt and pants were scraped and shredded, the front of my shirt was soaked with blood and my shoes were coated with a crusty mixture of dust, dirt, and blood. I probably got a lot of stares on the subway. I took a count of all my injuries. By far the scrapes were the worst; my back and legs were almost covered in scrapes and bruises. And not the kind of light scrapes I got as a kid, but the brutal, searing scrapes that inevitably arise when you get dragged across the ground at high speeds. In the worst places, bits of dirt and asphalt were stuck to my raw back. Thankfully, the blood on my shoes and shirt was not mine. Less thankfully, my torso was bruised and battered. I did my best to clean and dress my injuries.
In a flash of panic I remembered my revolver. Checking my holster, I saw that I still had it on me. I unloaded the cartridges. All six were spent, yet I could not remember firing a single one. I had just finished reloading the revolver when someone rang my door buzzer.