December 22, 2011. It was a pleasant day in the knowledge that the dreaded shopping was done and so I was sitting on the couch at home, enjoying quality midday Christmas programming.
All of a sudden the relative quiet, only broken by the occasional call of an attention-seeking bird outside, was disturbed by a sexy French tune that pierced the air. Momentarily cursing my old school Nokia’s charmant tone that occasionally leads to answer-delaying shimmying, I eventually picked up my phone and found my dad on the other end of the line.
“Look,” he said. “I’m at Miranda Westfield and I’m just getting some last minute stocking fillers. Already got your big Chrissie present – don’t know if you’ll like it, but you’re getting it anyways – but what do you want in terms of little things?”
I silently laughed at his discomfort with shopping malls at Christmas time and momentarily hummed as I pondered his question. In the midst of ‘um’-ing and ‘ah’-ing, my thoughts verbalised into expressing my desire for some kind of fruit tea from T2 and some body butter from The Body Shop.
Then an idea struck… not unlike the hammer of Thor.
A Girl Can Dream, Right?
“Oh, and a Nerf gun,” I casually added. Not unlike Homer Simpson trying to order illegal fireworks on holidays. There was a pause.
“A Nerf gun?” dad asked. Que?
“You know… plastic gun? Yellow and orange. Shoots foam bullets. There’s a revolver one that holds six bullets that’s about ten bucks at KMart.”
An even longer pause ensued as this unexpected information processed through my father’s cranium.
“God strike me!” dad exclaimed slowly, snickering slightly. I grinned silently at this somewhat expected reaction. “So let me get this straight… you want a gun so that you can shoot us, while we’re left undefended?”
“Yes,” was my simple reply – and after a pause I politely added, “though, if you want, please feel free to buy one for yourself for defence.”
Dad laughed as though I was pulling his leg. Haughtily, I told him that he didn’t have to do it if he didn’t want to – but from my tone, I inferred his status as a jerky father if he didn’t.
“Whatever… sure… I’ll get you a Nerf gun,” he said sarcastically, then quickly changed the topic to my sister’s presents.
That was a no, then. Dang. The conversation ended, I went back to my midday movie and no more was said regarding toy guns.
Inevitably, Christmas morning rolled around and my sister woke me up at 6:30am by placing her 10 month old on me. Grumpily, I trudged out to the living room, where presents were enthusiastically and yet, lethargically exchanged. I’m pretty sure my nephew’s first Christmas has ensured that Fisher-Price won’t go bust until at least the next century.
I was pretty content with my stockpile: Scrabble fridge magnets, books, T2 Turkish Apple and Cinnamon tea, Brazilian Nut Body Butter – and a blue and white striped Cornishware butter dish (my family are mad collectors of quality homewares)! Finally, my dad handed me one last present.
Everyone paused, knowingly. I ripped open the bright red wrapping and two six-shooter revolver Nerf guns were there before my eyes. I grinned.
Two Tickets to the Gun Show?
“I can’t believe you actually got these!” I exclaimed. My mum laughed. My sister groaned at my immaturity. My nephew sat there, more interested in an electric toothbrush and toastie machine than his activity table.
My dad grabbed one of the guns and looked at me, unblinkingly.
“Right… how do these work?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. He meant serious business. I grabbed the other gun and without a word, we ventured through the house to the backyard, still in our pyjamas.
Standing on the back sandstone patio in the morning sun, dad turned to me seriously.
“Alright… shootout. Ten steps, then draw?”
Cocking my newly gifted machine of death, I defiantly cried, “Stuff that!” – and quick as a flash, bolted off the patio to find a decent sniper position, possibly behind the vegetable patch. The old man was going down.
Expecting shock and reluctance, I heard thunderous footsteps behind me – thunderous, quick footsteps. And grunting. Loud grunting. Uh oh. I realised at the very moment of considering the greenhouse as a bunker that my dad’s dicky knee was no match for the footwork and speed gained from 35 straight years of playing soccer.
Thus, I found myself in the middle of a full-blown Nerf gun war with my father at 7:30am on Christmas Day, while I was still in my Scooby-Doo satin shorts and he in his Rocky and Bullwinkle boxers.
In a manner somewhat unexpected of an almost-60-year-old grandfather, my dad started sliding, ducking and weaving like a soldier on the front line – never once losing grip on the trigger. Wisely, he positioned himself amidst the full Hills Hoist washing line and spun it to create confusion.
I, on the other hand, was left standing in the open like a sitting duck, with nothing to do but zig zag and squeal, terrified. Appearing from behind towels and bed sheets at random, I realised that I had started a duel with a suburban Clint Eastwood of sorts, who would not rest until his 25-year-old-daughter rued the day she asked for a Nerf gun.
Eventually, after 10 minutes of solid defensive strategy that consisted of mostly loud vocal exercises on my part, I conceded a humiliating defeat. We collected the spent ammunition and made our way back inside, dad panting victoriously. Not much else was said concerning my humiliation – at least not directly. After all, once the relatives arrived, there was food to be eaten and company to be enjoyed.
Yet, throughout the day, when he would catch me shooting foam bullets at something/one, dad would pause, mid-way to his destination, shake his head slowly in a paternal manner and say simply in a loud, patronising tone, “Greta… how old are you?”
Oh dear goodness. I think my father may be a diabolical genius.
