The day I was born my father sneaked out of the hospital with my sister in tow. Mother fast asleep, he had two errands to run. He filled up on pancakes and syrup at the local Village Inn (my sister had French toast), then off to K-Mart they went so my dad could buy his new baby boy his Very First Shotgun. This first day of my life, or so I’ve been told, I wouldn’t eat a Single Thing (for three days beyond I’d only snack on mashed bananas), so this shotgun was the first item ever bought Just For Me—diapers and rattles for a Baby-In-Abstract don’t count. I don’t know what my shotgun looks like, whether it suits my personality or would match my Burberry umbrella, but it’s stashed away in a cramped attic in Topeka and I could claim it any time. Maybe one day I’ll go pheasant hunting, or start a gang—either way I’m ready.