Dear Darlin'
by William Arnold
The sun had not yet risen, and the morning was still gray when Arthur arrived at Chesapeake Guns. The sign on the door said the shop opened at seven thirty. Arthur’s watch read six twenty.
He threw his palm into the brick wall beside the door and cursed. He looked around to see if anyone heard but nobody did. Nobody was around. He rubbed his thick, crunchy beard and turned his back to the door. He lit a cigarette and stuffed his hands deep in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket and smoked. Thinking.
The door came open behind him. Arthur turned and saw a small gray man propping the door open with his elbow. In his hand was a blue Yeti mug that steamed from the mouth in the morning cold.
“You alright, friend?” the man asked.
“Yeah, I’m—” Arthur rubbed his mouth. “I’m alright. I just thought it opened at six, is all.”
“Used to. I bought the place from Brighton a few years back and changed the hours.”
“Oh,” Arthur said. “Alright. Well, would you wanna help a feller out? I went all this way; I’d hate to sit out here in the cold.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like to, but I’d also hate for you to do som’n you regret.”
He and Arthur locked eyes for a moment. Not a sound in the air but the distant whir of the highway and the gentle rainwater trickling from the gutters, making small puddles in the asphalt.
“I don’t mean nothin’ by it.” the man said. “Just been doin’ this thing a while.”
“Sellin’ guns?”
“That’s right.” He sipped his Yeti mug and creased his eyebrows at Arthur. “When folks wanna do som’n bad, they tend to get mad when they cain’t do it.”
“What, like killin’ somebody?”
“That is a concern of mine, yes.”
“I ain’t gonna kill nobody.”
“I didn’t say you were.” the man said. He sighed and looked up and down the sidewalk. “Look, unless it’s for huntin’ or buyin’ a present for your Pa, I ain’t inclined to give you no service.”
“And if I say it’s for huntin’?”
The man looked at him for a while. “Shit, kid,” he shook his head and scoffed and stepped aside to make room in the doorway. He waved Arthur inside and had a look on his face as Arthur passed by him into the store.
The man went behind the glass showcase and flicked a switch. The dull fluorescents in the ceiling flickered on and began buzzing. He reached down behind the glass counter and flicked something else on and all the sidearms in the showcase became illuminated with little white lights. The man laid his hands flat on the counter and said,
“Whatchu want?”
Arthur looked at the wall of rifles and shotguns behind the counter.
“Twelve gauge. Whatever three hundred can get me.”
The man turned and carefully grabbed a Remington 370 pump-action shotgun from the wall and laid it on the glass counter. The 370 had a tag hanging off the trigger guard that read two hundred and eighty-nine dollars.
Arthur reached in his back pocket for his billfold and took out three brand new hundred-dollar bills and set them on the counter. The man took the money and looked at it.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
“What?”
“These are bank bills, son,” he looked up to Arthur with sadness in his eyes. “You just pulled these.”
Arthur didn’t say anything.
“You gon’ keep me up at night if you do som’n stupid with any of my guns, ya hear?”
“Yessir,” he said. “I won’t do nothin’ stupid.”
He threw his palm into the brick wall beside the door and cursed. He looked around to see if anyone heard but nobody did. Nobody was around. He rubbed his thick, crunchy beard and turned his back to the door. He lit a cigarette and stuffed his hands deep in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket and smoked. Thinking.
The door came open behind him. Arthur turned and saw a small gray man propping the door open with his elbow. In his hand was a blue Yeti mug that steamed from the mouth in the morning cold.
“You alright, friend?” the man asked.
“Yeah, I’m—” Arthur rubbed his mouth. “I’m alright. I just thought it opened at six, is all.”
“Used to. I bought the place from Brighton a few years back and changed the hours.”
“Oh,” Arthur said. “Alright. Well, would you wanna help a feller out? I went all this way; I’d hate to sit out here in the cold.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like to, but I’d also hate for you to do som’n you regret.”
He and Arthur locked eyes for a moment. Not a sound in the air but the distant whir of the highway and the gentle rainwater trickling from the gutters, making small puddles in the asphalt.
“I don’t mean nothin’ by it.” the man said. “Just been doin’ this thing a while.”
“Sellin’ guns?”
“That’s right.” He sipped his Yeti mug and creased his eyebrows at Arthur. “When folks wanna do som’n bad, they tend to get mad when they cain’t do it.”
“What, like killin’ somebody?”
“That is a concern of mine, yes.”
“I ain’t gonna kill nobody.”
“I didn’t say you were.” the man said. He sighed and looked up and down the sidewalk. “Look, unless it’s for huntin’ or buyin’ a present for your Pa, I ain’t inclined to give you no service.”
“And if I say it’s for huntin’?”
The man looked at him for a while. “Shit, kid,” he shook his head and scoffed and stepped aside to make room in the doorway. He waved Arthur inside and had a look on his face as Arthur passed by him into the store.
The man went behind the glass showcase and flicked a switch. The dull fluorescents in the ceiling flickered on and began buzzing. He reached down behind the glass counter and flicked something else on and all the sidearms in the showcase became illuminated with little white lights. The man laid his hands flat on the counter and said,
“Whatchu want?”
Arthur looked at the wall of rifles and shotguns behind the counter.
“Twelve gauge. Whatever three hundred can get me.”
The man turned and carefully grabbed a Remington 370 pump-action shotgun from the wall and laid it on the glass counter. The 370 had a tag hanging off the trigger guard that read two hundred and eighty-nine dollars.
Arthur reached in his back pocket for his billfold and took out three brand new hundred-dollar bills and set them on the counter. The man took the money and looked at it.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
“What?”
“These are bank bills, son,” he looked up to Arthur with sadness in his eyes. “You just pulled these.”
Arthur didn’t say anything.
“You gon’ keep me up at night if you do som’n stupid with any of my guns, ya hear?”
“Yessir,” he said. “I won’t do nothin’ stupid.”
Before leaving, he purchased a box of double-ought buckshot and walked down the sidewalk with the shotgun in one hand and the shells buried in his jacket pocket.
He walked for fifteen minutes before coming to a dingy motel called The White Roof Inn. He leaned the shotgun beside the door and walked inside to reception. Rain drops dotted on his jacket.
A frail looking woman with kind eyes and large-framed glasses peaked up from the desk and wished him a good morning.
“Mornin', ma’am.”
She set her crossword puzzle down and brought her bony hands to the clunky computer keyboard.
“Is it just you today?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Just me.”
She typed into the computer and looked back up.
“No pets, no visitors?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her fingers drummed away again.
“You staying just the one night?”
He nodded and paid her the twenty-two-dollar fee, and she handed him a room key and a map of the motel.
“Is there a pen and paper in the room?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But I can give ‘em to you if you need it.”
“Alright. That’d be good,” he said. “Oh, and can you send somethin’ in the post, too? Says outside that y’all got mail access.”
He walked for fifteen minutes before coming to a dingy motel called The White Roof Inn. He leaned the shotgun beside the door and walked inside to reception. Rain drops dotted on his jacket.
A frail looking woman with kind eyes and large-framed glasses peaked up from the desk and wished him a good morning.
“Mornin', ma’am.”
She set her crossword puzzle down and brought her bony hands to the clunky computer keyboard.
“Is it just you today?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Just me.”
She typed into the computer and looked back up.
“No pets, no visitors?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her fingers drummed away again.
“You staying just the one night?”
He nodded and paid her the twenty-two-dollar fee, and she handed him a room key and a map of the motel.
“Is there a pen and paper in the room?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But I can give ‘em to you if you need it.”
“Alright. That’d be good,” he said. “Oh, and can you send somethin’ in the post, too? Says outside that y’all got mail access.”
He went back out into the cold and took his shotgun to room two-forty-six and went inside. There was a single dresser in the room, and it sat beneath the window looking out to the empty parking lot.
He set the pen, paper, and mail envelope on top of the dresser and laid the shotgun down on the bed. The floral-patterned duvet cover reminded him of his grandmother’s house when he was a boy. He pulled the price tag off the trigger guard and tossed it in the empty wastebasket beside the nightstand. He left his shoes and coat on and dumped the box of Winchester shells on the bed. Arthur grabbed one of the shells from the bed and stuck it between his teeth and racked the shotgun open and slid the shell in the chamber and cocked it. He racked the shotgun again and caught the ejected shell and reloaded it.
He set the loaded shotgun amidst the pile of shells and then went over to the dresser. He leaned over the piece of paper with the pen in hand and tried his best to write neatly.
Dear Darlin’,
I know I should have written this sooner, but I haven’t had the words in me till now. I don’t hate you for not taking me back. You’re too smart a lady to forgive me again. I know I fucked up and I know I’ll fuck up again. It seems it's all I’m made of these days. I wish I could be with you in person to tell you how sorry I am, but I don’t think that would do any good. I just want you to know I mean it, okay? I’ll always be sorry, darlin. You’re the best thing that’s ever come to me and I’ll forever regret losing you.
He set the pen down on top of the paper and stretched his hand out for a minute. He took a deep breath before continuing.
I ain’t been drinking. Haven’t had a cigarette in three weeks. I know you always hated them things and was always telling me to quit it. I guess I’ll do it now while I’m on my own. But I ain’t writing to tell you how sorry I am, and I don’t aim to get any forgiveness out of you. I got a handsome job lined up for me down in the Bahamas working on some rich boats for some rich fellas and I think I’m gonna take it. Don’t worry about me, though. I’ll be with some good buddies of mine making better money than I ever had, but I ain’t sure about coming back to the States. I ain’t sure if I’ll ever see you again. I should probably tell you to move on from me and find happiness with someone else, but you know me. I’ll be hoping you miss me. I know I probably shouldn’t be letting go of everything, but I feel like letting go is all I have left. I need something else. Something new that I don’t think I can find here. I ain’t quite sure what that something is, but I’ll send you a postcard from the Bahamas when I figure it out. Anyway, my hand is getting tired from all this writing. Though, I think I did a damned good job at making it so you could read it. I love you, darlin’. I always will.
Arthur
He set the pen down beside the paper and folded up the letter and fit it into the envelope and licked the seal shut. He wrote the postal address on the back and left the letter on the dresser.
He sat down on the bed and stretched his hand some more and looked out the window. The indent his weight made on the mattress sent some of the shotgun shells rolling off the bed and onto the carpet by his boots. He made no effort to pick them up, only looked at them.
He rose from the bed and grabbed the envelope and dropped it off at reception. He walked back with the room key in hand and the last few minutes of his life carefully planned out in his head. And in his head, it all seemed cut and dry. Like it would go just fine. But when he came before the nondescript brown door of room two-forty-six, he stopped. He felt the small weight of the Marlboros in his back pocket and said, “What the hell?” and sat down on the pavement beside the door. He had his last cigarette while he held his knees in the crooks of his elbows and looked out into the early morning rain.
He smoked and felt the heat in his throat, in his lungs. He tasted the tobacco and felt the coolness of the day. The freshness of the rain. The warmth of his jacket and the cold steel toes of his boots. He finished his cigarette and threw it out into the rainy street and rose from his spot beside the door and looked out across the world.
Somewhere out in the sky, beyond the fast-food restaurants and department stores and gas stations and intersections and stop lights, he saw something. A light. A fresh sun birthed by the new day. It had very little room to peek between the dark clouds; but when it did, that sunrise lit the whole world with a freshness and a life that reminded him of another time. Of a man much younger. A man who was not in need of repair nor forgiveness. And it was in the new light of that new day that he turned to face the door. Two-forty-six. Black lettering. He could see the room through the blinds. Completely dark. He hadn’t even turned on a light. He saw the red shells on the floor and the Remington on the bed and the pen on the dresser.
He lit another cigarette and turned from the window and plunged his hands in his jacket pockets once more. Marching down the street with the light rain peppering his cheeks, he didn’t once look back at that motel.
And while that morning’s sunrise had been short lived and was quickly suffocated back into the darkness of the overcast, not once did he forget the warmth of it. Or the beauty that had lived for only a moment. He smoked a cigarette he didn’t believe he’d ever have and got on a bus he didn’t believe he’d ever take.
He paid his fee and sat in the very back corner and went wherever the bus would take him.
He leaned his head against the window and looked up into the dark sky. And with tears in his eyes, he asked Him what the hell his life was for if it wasn’t for dying.
He set the pen, paper, and mail envelope on top of the dresser and laid the shotgun down on the bed. The floral-patterned duvet cover reminded him of his grandmother’s house when he was a boy. He pulled the price tag off the trigger guard and tossed it in the empty wastebasket beside the nightstand. He left his shoes and coat on and dumped the box of Winchester shells on the bed. Arthur grabbed one of the shells from the bed and stuck it between his teeth and racked the shotgun open and slid the shell in the chamber and cocked it. He racked the shotgun again and caught the ejected shell and reloaded it.
He set the loaded shotgun amidst the pile of shells and then went over to the dresser. He leaned over the piece of paper with the pen in hand and tried his best to write neatly.
Dear Darlin’,
I know I should have written this sooner, but I haven’t had the words in me till now. I don’t hate you for not taking me back. You’re too smart a lady to forgive me again. I know I fucked up and I know I’ll fuck up again. It seems it's all I’m made of these days. I wish I could be with you in person to tell you how sorry I am, but I don’t think that would do any good. I just want you to know I mean it, okay? I’ll always be sorry, darlin. You’re the best thing that’s ever come to me and I’ll forever regret losing you.
He set the pen down on top of the paper and stretched his hand out for a minute. He took a deep breath before continuing.
I ain’t been drinking. Haven’t had a cigarette in three weeks. I know you always hated them things and was always telling me to quit it. I guess I’ll do it now while I’m on my own. But I ain’t writing to tell you how sorry I am, and I don’t aim to get any forgiveness out of you. I got a handsome job lined up for me down in the Bahamas working on some rich boats for some rich fellas and I think I’m gonna take it. Don’t worry about me, though. I’ll be with some good buddies of mine making better money than I ever had, but I ain’t sure about coming back to the States. I ain’t sure if I’ll ever see you again. I should probably tell you to move on from me and find happiness with someone else, but you know me. I’ll be hoping you miss me. I know I probably shouldn’t be letting go of everything, but I feel like letting go is all I have left. I need something else. Something new that I don’t think I can find here. I ain’t quite sure what that something is, but I’ll send you a postcard from the Bahamas when I figure it out. Anyway, my hand is getting tired from all this writing. Though, I think I did a damned good job at making it so you could read it. I love you, darlin’. I always will.
Arthur
He set the pen down beside the paper and folded up the letter and fit it into the envelope and licked the seal shut. He wrote the postal address on the back and left the letter on the dresser.
He sat down on the bed and stretched his hand some more and looked out the window. The indent his weight made on the mattress sent some of the shotgun shells rolling off the bed and onto the carpet by his boots. He made no effort to pick them up, only looked at them.
He rose from the bed and grabbed the envelope and dropped it off at reception. He walked back with the room key in hand and the last few minutes of his life carefully planned out in his head. And in his head, it all seemed cut and dry. Like it would go just fine. But when he came before the nondescript brown door of room two-forty-six, he stopped. He felt the small weight of the Marlboros in his back pocket and said, “What the hell?” and sat down on the pavement beside the door. He had his last cigarette while he held his knees in the crooks of his elbows and looked out into the early morning rain.
He smoked and felt the heat in his throat, in his lungs. He tasted the tobacco and felt the coolness of the day. The freshness of the rain. The warmth of his jacket and the cold steel toes of his boots. He finished his cigarette and threw it out into the rainy street and rose from his spot beside the door and looked out across the world.
Somewhere out in the sky, beyond the fast-food restaurants and department stores and gas stations and intersections and stop lights, he saw something. A light. A fresh sun birthed by the new day. It had very little room to peek between the dark clouds; but when it did, that sunrise lit the whole world with a freshness and a life that reminded him of another time. Of a man much younger. A man who was not in need of repair nor forgiveness. And it was in the new light of that new day that he turned to face the door. Two-forty-six. Black lettering. He could see the room through the blinds. Completely dark. He hadn’t even turned on a light. He saw the red shells on the floor and the Remington on the bed and the pen on the dresser.
He lit another cigarette and turned from the window and plunged his hands in his jacket pockets once more. Marching down the street with the light rain peppering his cheeks, he didn’t once look back at that motel.
And while that morning’s sunrise had been short lived and was quickly suffocated back into the darkness of the overcast, not once did he forget the warmth of it. Or the beauty that had lived for only a moment. He smoked a cigarette he didn’t believe he’d ever have and got on a bus he didn’t believe he’d ever take.
He paid his fee and sat in the very back corner and went wherever the bus would take him.
He leaned his head against the window and looked up into the dark sky. And with tears in his eyes, he asked Him what the hell his life was for if it wasn’t for dying.
William Arnold is a senior in high school and a lifelong resident of the Eastern Shore of Maryland, which provides inspiration for a majority of his settings and vernacular. He has a passion for writing short stories and novels about the struggles he has endured and the questions he has about life.