To The Bullet in my Pants Pocket

I had no idea you were there. At the airport, on my way to my nephew’s wedding, the TSA agent pulls me aside, tells me he has to search my bag. This has happened before. I think he needs to show someone he’s doing his job. Sure, go ahead, I say and turn to me son. He wants a Coke. The agent is checking the bag with an unusual attention to detail, running his hand deep inside the pockets. He has to run it through the x-ray machine again. Now, I begin to worry about making the flight.

He comes back with another agent. They speak in small phrases to each other: “Small”, “Pocket”, “Not sure.”

One turns to me, “Do you own a gun?”

“No.”

And he gives me a look.

He pulls out my jeans and reaches in all the pockets. Finally, in the tiny 5th pocket in the front right hip, he pulls you out. He holds you between two fingers and says, “What is this?”

I think you are a lipstick sample or a piece of candy, but I never think “bullet” until he says it.

I have to explain. I bought the jeans from a thrift store downtown. $3 on sale and they’re barely worn Levi’s. They actually fit and I’ve worn and washed them a couple times already. The bullet isn’t mine; it must have come in the jeans.

Of course, that means the woman who owned the jeans before me tucked you into her pocket, and now I want to know your story. We are in Akron, Ohio and clearly are you meant for a handgun and not a hunting rifle. It doesn’t look like you could do that much damage; you’re quite small.

But why aren’t you in the gun? Was the chamber full and she wanted to have one more with her just case? She walks out and grabs one more bullet on her way out the door. Something scares her, but I’m betting the gun doesn’t make her feel as safe and she thought it would.

Or maybe, you were the last one in when she emptied it out. Maybe she was having a bad day. I’ve had days like that. I imagine she thinks about it. Could go either way and she looks for something to hang on to. In the meantime, she tries to make it just a little bit harder. She takes the bullet out and puts it in her jeans pocket. She needs a new life, she thinks. If this is going to work, she’s going to have to start over. Maybe she will just sell everything and move. Some place sunny. Some place easy. Some place she’s never been where strangers welcome her but don’t ask too many questions.