Bang! Bang! You're Dead!

A Story-Poem

Issue #21

Bang! Bang! You’re Dead!

I was there
that Saturday
when Matt D.
shot my father down.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

I can still smell
the gun powder
and see my father
flinch as the bullet
hit his chest. I still
see him falling…
falling…falling
face down.
My mother was
at his side almost
before he hit
the dirt. She yelled
and screamed. I saw
her pick up the Colt 45,
aim, and pull the trigger.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

She missed. Matt D.
knocked the Colt
from her hand.
I wanted to pick up
the Colt, but my feet
were rooted to the ground.
I wanted to hug my mother
but I was frozen where
I stood. I was only ten,
not yet a man. I swore
I would kill Matt D.
before I died. Before
I too passed beyond
the folds of this life.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

My mother put us
on a stagecoach
and we headed
back east to live
with her folks. She
never talked about
what happened that
day, but late at night
I would catch her
in the rocking chair,
the tears falling down
her pale cheeks.
I practiced with
my father’s Colt
every chance I had.
I knew one day
I would return
and face the man
who brought my father
to an early grave.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

My father was not
a bad man. He worked
hard to eke out a living
in that godforsaken land.
To provide us with a roof
over our heads and food
in our bellies. But there
never seemed to be
enough to pay the
storekeeper his due.
He took to stealing
when I was quite young,
still sucking on my
mother’s breast. Small
things at first. Extra seed
to plant the crops. A necklace
for his lovely wife. And soon
he was robbing stagecoaches,
trains, and banks. He had
a few loyal friends who
would ride with him. He
learned to shoot with
the best of them. Getting
faster by the day. I knew
none of this growing up—
only that he would disappear
for days at a time. After he
died, my mother filled
the nights with stories
of his bravery and speed.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

He kept little of the money
for himself. Just enough
to keep us from starving.
Most of the money he shared
with those whose need
he thought was greater
than our own. No one
knew who he was. They thought
he was a poor farmer from
dawn to dusk. That is until
one of his friends decided
to turn him in for the reward.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

We had gone to Dodge
that day for some supplies—
mother, father, and me.
We had been there often
and no one had ever
bothered us. This time
was different. Almost as
if someone had tipped
off the sheriff. Matt D.
had confronted my father
outside the saloon. My
father did not hesitate
to draw his Colt, but
he was not fast enough.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

We buried him in that town
and left. Mother keeps
telling me that it is my
duty to return and avenge
the name of my father.
And I so want to please
her. To put Matt D.
down. To see him lying
in the dirt, his blood
draining into the earth.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

I am sixteen now,
old enough to call
myself a man. I have
been practicing for years
with my father’s Colt.
I am good—very good.
When I was boarding
the train to return to Dodge,
my mother gave me
a new Colt 45 with
a pearl handle. She said
she had it made for me
to avenge my father. She
told me not to return home
until the deed was done.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

I arrived back in Dodge
last night. I had
a couple of drinks at
the saloon and listened
to the gossip. Matt D.
stopped in and I almost
didn’t recognize him.
He had aged more than
I could have imagined.
When I meet him
on the street tomorrow,
I will remind him
of what he did six
years ago. Then I will
take his life as he
took my father’s.
Bang! Bang! You’re dead.

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Notes

This story-poem was inspired by an anti-violence collage that included a photo of Matt Dillon, the sheriff on the TV show Gunsmoke, which aired for 20 years. Violence does not solve problems, yet people continue to carry guns and shoot each other.

As a child, I received a toy gun and holster as a gift, and I played Cowboys and Indians. We are encouraged early in our lives to solve our problems with guns. Fortunately for me, my non-violent religious upbringing overshadowed the cultural messages, and I resisted the societal urge to use violence to fix my problems.

My father hunted rabbits, pheasants, and deer when we lived on a farm. I was given a BB gun at a young age, and I remember shooting a woodpecker. I have never owned or used a revolver, a shotgun, or a rifle. By the time I was in high school, I was opposed to violence of any kind.

I have written only a few political poems. I remember writing one about the Chicago Seven back in college. The Chicago Seven were anti-war protesters who orchestrated the protests at the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago. They were charged with crossing state lines to incite riots. The trial made a mockery of justice.

Thanks for reading. Please share with others.

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