My Gun In Texas Scents Traveled Faster, and: Dead Man’s Lashes Anna Journey (bio) My Gun Looks like a power drill,space-alien ray gun—blackwith a neon-blue circle on the grippanel. Triangular handle. It’s uselessfor bank robbing, for muggings, for crimesof passion, unless you countmy spine’s abnormalityas a crime. I use my gunon myself—percussive massage gun that pummelsthe paraspinal muscles with rapidpunches of its polyurethane fist. My favoriteof the gun’s multiple attachments: the onecalled “the cone,” for its stabbyshape and the way it sticksdeep into scar tissue, breaks upthe old damage, or at least softensthe edges of the hardestlumps. Once, in Richmond, I lived acrossthe street from Lombardy Market,where I’d buy six-packs of Harpoonfor the ale’s malted-caramel tastebut mainly for its label’strippy filigree of orange lotuses.And buttermilk biscuits with pork sausage, [End Page 24] too, from the Southside biker dudenamed Lucky who workedthe counter, and whoseblack ponytail swungwith his movements. His beefy armsand snake tattoo could seemscary, except once he spokeyou realized he was sweet,that he meant it when he called youHoney. I’d sell him pot sometimesduring his breaks when he’d dartout to my place, or rathermy boyfriend Patrick’s placein which I stayed along with hischildhood friend John, a recentIraq War vet. Because John woke upmost nights kickboxing the darkas he hopped on his bed,shouting as the steel springsclanked like a muffled accordion,Patrick finally had to put a padlockon the inside of our bedroom doorand a second one on our sideof the shared bathroom. During one of our fights, I slammedthe front door, shouted,John needs to move!, and, sobbing,ran barefoot onto the sidewalk. I noticedthe glow of Lucky’s cigarette cherryflare across the street as he leanedagainst the brick frontof the market. He didn’t say anythingthen, just pulled out anothercigarette, wiggled its white papertip the air, motioned me over. We smoked,side by side, until I cleared my throat, [End Page 25] told him I was going to take a walk.He said, Wait, ducked inside,and came back with a singlepaper-bagged Harpoon, handed it to me.I lived on that block half a yearbefore I finally learnedthe origin of Lucky’s nickname: that during an armed robbery at the market,he’d emptied the register while heldat gunpoint, then raised his hands.The robber aimed a pistol at Lucky’sforehead, point-blank, and pulledthe trigger. The gun jammed. After that,Lucky made sure the neighborhoodknew he kept a loaded Coltsomewhere up front. Sometimes, when I’m drilling my backwith my gun, I think of how Luckyonce stared down the barrelof a real one. Even after I knewthe story I could never say moreto him than: Want to swing by later?I just got more weed. Or:Two biscuits today, sir, I’m massivelyhungover. I never said goodbye to Lucky when I movedto Houston. Almost fifteen yearslater, I’ve driven by Lombardy Marketmany times on my visitsto Richmond, but I can’t bearto go inside. I’m afraidLucky won’t be there. I’m worriedsome stranger’s face willdisplace his if I look, so I just glance [End Page 26] once at the whitewashed brick,avoid the upper half of the window.If I balance the angle of my gun’scone attachment so it pointsstraight down, let gravity drive inthe tip, the edges of the hardscar tissue begin to break. In Texas Scents Traveled Faster because of the humidityand heat. There, where the airmolecules and I were both more volatile. Often,after my boyfriend and I argued,I slipped out to the front porch’s steps,where it took less than a secondfor the smell of our neighbor’s...