Lunchbox

            April 18, 1999, McNichols Arena. Colorado Avalanche hosting the Dallas Stars on the last game of the regular season, though both would skate deep into the playoffs. Stadium eerily unraucous—perhaps saving the storm for the San Jose Sharks, whom they’d soon eat up in a best-of-seven series.

            Ken and his daughters Mikki and Faye, age 9 and 12, followed their tickets’ fate to row 13 D, E and F, a good enough view—but for the curve of the Plexiglas, scuffed from the rough and tumble of these get-em-over-with games. Below them and a section closer to the penalty box was another dad with his offspring—two boys, teenaged and pre-K. In the hands of the latter was a pint-sized, plastic AK-47. The gamin delighted in letting it rip, the trigger attached to a whirly gear that agitated some uvula inside, like a baseball card against the spokes of some future dirt bike.

            “Dad,” queried Faye, “what’s up with that kid?”

            Ken had noticed—had been targeted a couple times, as had everyone in his site, not excluding Avalanche captain Joe Sakic. “Dunno. Dumb parenting, I’d guess.”

            That parent was a hulking mass of flesh wrapped tightly in a Patrick Roy jersey. Perhaps this Hulk played goalie himself when he’d been his older son’s age, as the two of them grunted their opinions about what was happening on the ice. Holding a beer within two other drained cups, fisting the sleeve of popcorn his older son held, he paid no attention to the little boy in his own world, needing nothing but this gun to nourish him.

            “Maybe he needs a spanking,” Mikki giggled.

            “So go do it, Lara Croft—dare you.”

            “Dare you to say hi to his brother. I saw him looking at you.”

            “Was not.”

            “Was! And you’ve been looking too when he turns away.”

            “Shut up! He’s… just… shut up.”

            “Girls,” Ken refereed, “we’re here to watch a game.” Fat chance. The little Scarface had consumed his concentration on anything Sakic and Roy were doing to win this game, which they would, if they’d survive the onslaught of the Stars and others out to snipe them.

            Between the first and second period, while the Zamboni resurfaced the ice, a promo band began to play behind the home net. Had to be ‘Thunderstruck’ to frenzy the beer-and-bathroom exodus, followed by ‘Enter Sandman’ upon the gradual return. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word, And never mind that noise you heard” caused the machine gun to indeed hush, sheer terror of the song. The band was a poor man’s AC/DC or Metallica, of course, but vitally in tune and suitably energetic.

            Time allowed for one more, a strange and fitting cap: Marilyn Manson’s ‘Lunchbox’, uncensored. The bassist seem to goad the naysayers who tolerated the “I wanna grow up, I wanna be a big rock and roll star” but not “so no one fucks with me!” And at the cadence of “pow pow pow,” the stadium technicians turned down the sound to the chagrin, at least, of the little gunslinger. But he kept the song going through his whirly gear and uvula, past the second period face-off.

            “Oh my God,” Faye complained, “that brat never stops. Ruined the last song for me.”

            “Wasn’t so good anyway. Too… sweary.”

            Stadium P.A. read Mikki’s mind at the first stop of action. “The Colorado Avalanche organization would like to apologize for the unauthorized vulgarity in one of the songs played during intermission. We regret this choice by the guest performers and want to ensure a family atmosphere. Go-ooh-ooh Avalanche!”

            Ken smirked. Weekend custody with the girls had them at the ski slopes earlier in the month, now at this indoor frozen pond. He wondered if the hulking guy with his sons had a similar divorcee arrangement. Then, as if the Hulk’s youngest knew he were telepathically spying on them, Ken received a hail of machine gun whirl. “That’s it,” he announced. “If the Avalanche are a family organization, well, then…” He was expecting Faye to stop him from getting up, but she didn’t. Instead, she feigned interest in the game, while Mikki simulated the imminent spanking with a satisfied air.

           

            The request was clumsy at best. “Would, um,” Ken blushed, “um, would….” The Hulk had no idea he was even being addressed, drowned out by a rain of bullets from his younger flesh-of-my-flesh. The older boy looked over at Ken’s abandoned daughters, Faye in particular. “Would, um—”

            “You talkin’ to me?” the Hulk pointed to his chest with his stack of five beers.

            “Um, well—”

            “Spit it out, buddy.”

            “Yeah, if you want to be buddies, I’ll ask that, um—”

            “Wha?”

            “That your son here, um, cool it down with the machine gun.”

            “You lookin’ for a fist sandwich?”

            “No, no—just that… Like the announcement said, about ‘family atmosphere’ and all.”

            His son answered with a “pow pow pow”, directly at Ken’s heart.

            Which skipped a beat and fluttered. Ken grabbed the toy and shouted, “what kind of sick Christmas gift—”

            The Hulk stood up like a forklift. “Easter,” he evilled with a smile. “In the bunny basket. You got three seconds to give that back to Junior and apologize. One. Two. Thr—”

            Stars aligned. Ken snapped the barrel on his rising knee and the Hulk, rearing his arm to catapult him back to row 13, froze like Goliath. A ricocheted slapshot from Dallas had found the back of his head. His swaying lack of consciousness would crush his kid, defenseless and petrified. Ken moved to prop his body against the timber, screaming for the older son to do likewise. Stadium at a standstill—the game of course had stopped. Thoughts and prayers might have ensued, by instant awe and instinct; mostly, silence in the stun of things.

           

            Didn’t die, released from Denver Health a few days later. Around lunchtime, April 20^th. Shooting stars aligned or not, the hospital was making room for Columbine.

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2019)