A woman off to the side noticed the shooter’s face. She saw that his eyes were absolutely huge.
“Hot bullets,” he said to no one in particular.
He stopped at a table and poured a Pepsi on the top of the gun, and on his hand. He stopped firing and watched a man behind the wheel of a car in the parking lot. The man’s hand slipped along the gearshift as he put it in reverse.
He was horrified, looking into the restaurant, but he was still a careful driver: He checked his mirrors before he backed up.
He was sure to call someone. They would come soon.
The shooter adjusted his grip on the gun. The woman watched his knuckles carefully. She saw them turn from white to red when he relaxed his hands. She saw them tense and go white again and held her breath.
He gripped the gun and sucked in as hard as a long jumper before a leap.
Then he just went everywhere with the gun. The barrel flying hot, shots opened along the wall, glass shattered, an upper arm got all chewed up, and the cash register got hit. Its drawer popped open like a tongue. The shooter raised his foot high and kicked it hard. Nickels, dimes, quarters, pennies sprinkled down. Bills fluttered. It looked absurd in the smoke, and weirder still when they landed. One $20 bill soaked up the blood on a hole in the college girl’s forehead.
“He’s a mess,” Jerry’s girlfriend said. She was on the floor holding him as he spasmed. His shirt was reddened wounds. “This is a mess.” The woman stroked his head and muttered. “Jerry, do something. Do something, Jerry, do something.”
A girl noticed the shooter looked tired. Weary was the word, she thought.
He raised the gun to fire, and everyone tensed; but then he didn’t shoot. He dropped to a relaxed position. He thrust his arm with the gun forward, like he was trying to shake it off. Then he did, and the gun clattered to the ground, emptied.
He looked around, picked up an iced tea and took a long gulp.
“I always liked iced tea.”
No one in the place moved when he spoke. A lot of people kept their eyes on the gun, even though it was on the floor. For a few moments now, everyone had been quiet and still. It was like the silence when no one can think of what to say at a party.
“Looks like a bad day for the home team,” the shooter said.
He pulled a pistol from his back pocket and put the barrel in his mouth.
“Oh, yes, finally, you fuck,” a voice said.
He looked toward the ceiling where an overhead fan spun slowly. He took the gun from his mouth and aimed it around. But he didn’t shoot.
“Come on,” someone said.
Ten feet away, a black woman stood up, walked to the door and said, “Let me. I’ll do it if you can’t.”
“No, that’s fine,” he said. “Thank you. I can take care of it. I can.”
“All right, then,” the woman said.
The other people started moving.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t move.”
It was so sunny out. It was a good day. He put the tip of the gun to his head. “Bad day for the home team,” he said. “I’m sorry about all this.”
He shot himself.
