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Volume 2 Number 2 • Fall - Winter 2010-2011
The Trigger Man and His Accomplice
I held the ammo in my left hand and the chipmunk by the tail in my right. The instrument of death: a pellet gun proudly held by Denny Wentworth, one of the locals near my parent's cottage in the woods. We stood off Shady Lane, my shoulders tense, feeling the heavy burden of the chipmunk's soul, an indelible mark in the form of a large shadow imprinted on my coat. It was true: I had been outnumbered; the photographer making us pose with the kill. “Smile for the camera,” he said. So I did. My smile forced, as if I had been an unwilling participant, an accomplice if you will, while Denny seemed relaxed, ready to slaughter more, ready to show off our trophy victims.
It's hard to imagine that the boy holding that chipmunk would become a teacher for the Michigan Department of Corrections, that by his own volition, he would choose a career educating convicted murderers, rapists, thieves, and drug dealers. I wonder: How did he transform from that timid boy in the photograph to an assertive educator barking out instructions to hardened criminals? How did he become so damn good at it?
As I examine the photo, I'm reminded of Rod Stewart. I hear his raspy voice in my head, singing: “Every picture tells a story, don't it? Every picture tells a story, don't it.” It's those repetitive lyrics lingering in my brain that make me wonder: Is he asking? Or telling? As I study the photograph I think to myself: How could my middle-class upbringing change so drastically, to the point where I'm not so sure I know who that little boy is, or whether I had ever known him. Perhaps this picture, or any picture for the matter, distorts reality, gives the viewer an approximate truth. Then it dawns on me, a mixture of recollection and fact: 1) I appear to be uncomfortable because of the cold, damp autumn weather, 2) the pellet gun and ammo are mine (a gift from my father), and most importantly 3) I am the trigger man, not Denny.
James R. Tomlinson will soon be approaching 20 years teaching prisoners. His stories have appeared in Staccato, NANO Fiction, Underground Voices, Pebble Lake Review, GlassFire Magazine, Diverse Voices Quarterly, and elsewhere. He sometimes wishes he would've chosen a different line of work.