“I’m going to outrun the BB gun!” That’s the sentence I walked into that long ago August night in 1997. To celebrate the birthday of my friend, Cotton Phillips, I relate the tale of a night dark and dreary. A tale of foolishness, fun, sorta bravery and excellent marksmanship.

Summer school at Bowling Green State University is a unique time of learning and fun. Classes everyday for many more hours a day than regular session followed by fun free time with your closest friends. The Summer of ’97 in Bowling Green was beset by a constant slew of electrical, rolling black outs. After many years in Los Angeles, they’re second nature to me, but back in Ohio, it felt otherworldly. One fine Friday in August, we suffered another black out and all of the bars were closed; save the one I worked. That was fine, as we had a large crowd of my friends and associates.

Now I can’t remember the exact address of my friends’ house but it was the capitol of BG’s summer school society. A large two-story house, it had a fair porch, decent living room and a large backyard (about a hundred yards). The inhabitants made the spot though; Sam, Jason, the lovingly monikered Meat Head and, of course, Cotton.

I ventured to this house on Clough after my long shift to enjoy a couple of cold ones and shoot the shit with my boys. I walked into a house of 25-30 heathens enjoying another weekend summer school after hours. The usual suspects of High Ball, Uncle Pauly, Ding and Yetieta were in attendance but I was immediately grabbed by a shirtless kid, in shorts whom I shall call, Mr. X.

“Kevin, thank God, you’re here! I trust you, man, you can be the judge!”

“Judge,” I asked quizzically. “Of what?”

“I’m going to outrun the BB Gun!”

Mind you, I keep track of questions never before asked me and this question sufficed. I looked through the 3 AM parlor of people and spied in the back corner, Cotton Phillips and, our buddy, Critical Bill, pumping two BB Gun rifles with gusto. As Mr. X explained the wager he’d made with Cotton and Critical (and as it turned out, ten other people) it became clear to me, the kid was an idiot.

“You’re betting those two that you can outrun two BB Gun rifles,” I inquired.

“Well… yah”

Mr. X had wagered a fair amount of money on his belief.

“Dude, you’re going to get shot AND have to pay the bet. Cotton hunts and Critical Bill fought in Desert Storm.”

“Ah, he was a medic.”

“Pretty sure they teach you to shoot in Basic Training.”

“I’ll give you a percentage of the winnings.”

Well, how can I say no to that?

I sauntered over to Cotton and Critical (still pumping rifles).

“Hey boys, you got this?”

“Dummy wants to pay to get shot,” Critical responded.

“We’ll cut you in a percentage, Kevin,” Cotton nodded.

Well there you have it. The definition of win-win. For me.

To set the scene, the back yard was large. A solitary street light in front of the house, illuminated five feet of yard behind the house. At the confluence of light and dark, Mr. X would stand, shirtless, facing the back window of said house. The back window was an 81 (81, 82 whatever it takes) by 50 window. Big window. With the screen removed, Cotton and Critical were positioned to fire from the window… FIVE FEET from MR. X.

The after hours spectators lined the back yard as if watching Tiger at the Masters.

“You sure you want to do this, kid,” I asked as I walked him to his mark.

“I got this, Kevin. At the count of three, I’m gonna turn, gonna zig and zag and they’ll never touch me.”

And so, I stood to the left, clear of friendly fire as Mr. X faced his executioners. No mask.

“You ready kid,” I called out.

“I’m f***ing ready!”

“You ready boys,” I asked Cotton and Critical.

“Oh, we’re ready,” Cotton answered looking like Barry Pepper in Saving Private Ryan.

“Alright, 1….2…..3!!!” I yelled.

I would like to tell you Mr. X won the bet and that he did turn, zigged and zagged his way to glory… but that would be a lie. He perhaps was able to lift one leg about two feet before he was hit with a barrage that was reminiscent of Jimmy Caan in The Godfather.

I believe Mr. X lost three hundred bucks. I know that I made eighty and Cotton and Critical Bill received the satisfaction of shooting somebody and not really injuring them. Mr. X did have three BB’s stuck inside his skin but eh, what price a good story.

I salute you Mr. X, Critical Bill and Happy Birthday to my friend, Cotton Phillips.