My father said, “Come on,” and we walked out of the house, through the yard, and into fields on hills. We eventually descended into a copse and there amidst the trees he took out a revolver. “Set me up some targets,” he said, “on that fallen log over there.”
I thought he was going to shoot me but did it anyhow.
Years later my brother said, “Come on,” and we got into the beautiful black and red vintage Chevelle he’d refurbished. We drove fast to the highway, then faster over mountains, turning in ways that got me lost. We came to a beautiful mountain lake, a deep, serene reservoir, about dusk. We got out and walked to the new dock, and out onto it. “Look how deep it is off the end,” my brother said. “How clear.”
I thought he was going to hit me from behind, push me, or otherwise drown me.
Why do I go along when people say, “Come on”?
No one’s killed me yet.
/ geste
