Timothy O'Leary, a part-time Columbia Gorge resident and a Pacific University graduate, pokes about in the nooks and crannies of life in his new short story collection about men facing the slings and arrows of modern-day America.
In one story, a sheriff seizes the opportunity to rescue a teenage boy from a life of torture, for reasons that go beyond the letter of the law. In another, a grieving husband finds desperately needed solace from a most unexpected source. In yet another, a loner who's toiled to overcome years of substance abuse finds his recovery hanging by the slenderest of threads. O'Leary's tales may focus on men, but they feature humanity in all its emotional confusion, shot through with sympathy, humor and even a little hope.
Here's an excerpt from "Dick Cheney Shot Me in the Face, and Other Tales of Men in Pain" (Unsolicited Press, 262 pages, $16.99).
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I was crouched half-mast, watching my bird-dog Belle nudge a sharp-tail out of a patch of buffalo grass, when Dick Cheney shot me in the face. If you know anything about shotguns, the fact I'm alive to tell this story borders on a miracle. Lucky for me, the Vice President was shooting small -- an ancient 20-gauge packed with bird shot -- supposedly a gun Gerald Ford gave Dick in 1974 for running his Presidential campaign.
If he'd been using a grownup's gun, a 12 or 16-gauge, it would've been closed-coffin. At the very least I'd be sucking dinner through a straw while watching cartoons from a chrome wheelchair. Fortunately, the Vice President couldn't hit a barn door from thirty feet. He favors himself quite the sportsman, but after hunting and fishing with the guy for thirty years, I can tell you there's a lot of legend in Cheney Ville. Fact is, Dick rattles easy. When those wings whistle and a grouse goes vertical he does a little Halliburton two-step, prancing around like he just got to invade another Arab country. A man that understands hunting plants himself, calmly leading the bird.
I only took the tail-end of the load, though to this day I've no clue what he was shooting at. What I can say, is that getting shot in the face is a life changing experience. I'd turned my head a touch when I heard the blast, and next thing I know I'm lifted off my feet and tipped over, pellets burrowing a quarter inch into my face and neck like big iron ticks.
The scalp is a big bleeder, and when there's that much blood you can't tell how hurt you are. I mean, nick your leg with a chainsaw and you can at least see if it's still attached, but good luck figuring out a head wound. I lay there, wondering if this was it. One eye blind with blood, the one I lost that day. Through the other I could see him bent at the waist, staring down on me, even whiter than normal. Corpse white. That artificial ticker maybe not pumping all the way to his brain. The sun at his back, his sweaty bald head and glasses reflecting light, there was this eerie halo around him, like some kind of warped angel. I thought, "If I'm dead and Cheney's here, something's gone terribly, terribly wrong."
"Henry? For God's sake Henry, are you alright?"
And that was the last time I ever saw Dick Cheney.
Reprinted with permission from Dick Cheney Shot Me in the Face, and Other Tales of Men in Pain, copyright 2017 by Timothy O'Leary. Unsolicited Press.
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