Think of a fish in the middle of a tropical jungle. That's the equivalent of my current situation. I'm 21, single, and a waitress at a little café in a little south jersey town. Interesting right? So what in the name of our sweet baby lord am I doing at this gun range. Honestly your guess is as good as mine. Sitting in my old, rumbly Toyota, watching the monotonous neon lights blink "ON POINT SHOOTING RANGE". I rubbed a little spot clear on the foggy windows of my car so I could see just a little clearer the dark outlines of the rows of cars in the run down parking lot.
"Red, blue, white, black, black, white, black, blue." After that the dim yellow globes did little to de-fuzz the automo-blobs. I watched a few bare branches shiver in the early December breeze. I heard the shouts and shots of the crumbling old building before me. A rumbling truck pulled into the old parking lot, past me, down to the end. I payed little attention to it as I doodled little pictures on the fog-board car window. A lost leaf drifted down onto the hood of my car, brown and chipped, and I started playing with the switches on my control panel. The car was off, so they didn't actually make a difference to the chilly, stale air, but the click satisfied me. Among the shots and shouts came a distant crunch of gravel, growing steadily louder each time. Then, I saw him. It was him. My stomach twisted up inside me, and I went numb, but I knew what I needed to do. Grabbing the small, thick square of paper off the passengers seat as the bitter cold December air smacked my face.
"Mr. Schwartz!" My voice almost lost in the frosty night. He didn't even flinch. I began to approach him. This was it.
"Mr. Schwartz!" I called again, louder. The ragged man, dressed in tan work boots, much too new to match the rest of his rumpled look. Dark, worn jeans and a wrinkled, hunter green jacket coupled with his unshaven face and mussed hair. His face, hardened wrinkles. The man looked up, startled, as I rushed to meet him in the middle of the parking lot.
"Hi, Mr. Schwartz?" I greeted with a nervous, kind smile. He surveyed me with his small, dark eyes.
"Yes." His response was short, as if his word count must be kept at a minimum, yet somehow polite.
"I'm Rebecca Burns." I held out a gloved hand. He took it briefly, still surveying my black coat and gray hat. Two brown curls swayed in the wind, one on either shoulder, ticking my neck.
"Can I help you?" His voice was deep and soft and sounded rusty, as if it's last use had been months ago. I held up the square paper.
"Do you recognize this woman?" The thick paper contained a picture of a young woman, in her low twenties, with short curly brown hair. He smooth, polished face didn't have a single blemish, and her eyes were big and bright. A string of pearls hung around her neck.
"No." Mr. Schwartz answered after studying the picture.
"This woman is my mother. You see those pearls?" My gloved finger traced the glistening beads. His eyes looked the picture over once more. "You gave her those pearls when you were dating." I took a deep breath as he flicked his eyes to meet mine. "I think you're my father." I held my breath, I had imagined this moment my whole life. His recognition of me, a slow, steady smile crawling across his face, his pulling me into a hug and thanking me for finding him.
"No." He shook his head and dismissed the picture. Turning to continue to the entrance, without another glance. The coldness of the night filled me, and no amount of defrosting is enough to melt the ice filling the hole my father, Mr. Schwartz, left in me.