A Christmas Story

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out

I had planned to write a story for you this week. But the best idea I had was a retelling of the movie Die Hard, only featuring a rebellious teenage elf who runs away to Los Angeles, joins up with a group of drunk and felonious dwarfs, and saves Nakatani Plaza. You see, they’re not all winners - so I passed on that idea.

Then, this past weekend, I went to Downtown Los Angeles to see a musical version of the iconic movie A Christmas Story. All of the tropes were there - Ralphie Parker was at the center of it all, though his character lacked the charm that Peter Billingsley brought to the role in the film. The leg lamp, the cursing and subsequent soap on the mouth, and the Red Ryder BB gun, with its carbine action, 200-shot capacity, compass in the stock, and this thing that tells time.

The plot remains the same - Ralphie enlists anyone who will listen to implore Santa to procure the weapon for him, to which every adult replies, “You’ll shoot your eye out.”

The movie was not a hit when it was released, but has become a Christmas classic. It’s played on repeat for 24 hours on some cable stations and remains in heavy rotation on Christmas top movie lists. The story was based on the memoirs of the writer Jean Shepherd, who played the grown-up version of Ralphie, the narrator of the film.

This movie has resonated with me for most of my life, perhaps because I nearly shot my eye out in the era the movie was released. Or, more accurately, one of my best friends almost shot my eye out in the great BB gun wars of the 1980s. I don’t know if my memory is real or imagined, but I can still see the tiniest copper projectile make its way to my face. I froze as the projectile made contact. That moment saved me from a failed military career, as it became apparent that I was not combat material. The entry wound began bleeding, and by grasping my face, I rubbed the blood all over it, including my eye, causing my co-conspirotors to believe that I had indeed shot my eye out.

Two older boys swept in to perform triage and stop us from getting help. In doing so, their subterfuge was revealed - they had hidden stealthily in the gully where we were meant to be shooting targets and imaginary enemies and were picking us off, one by one. My friend had shot at me in response to those sniper’s BBs.

They cleaned me up, and only a small cut was left on my face. It was agreed. We all say nothing. Snitches, get stitches. I didn’t want to see my friend in trouble; we didn’t want to lose our guns, and we all feared the wrath of the older boys.

I went home and told my Mother I had fallen on a rock. It worked.

Eventually, though, I broke. A few weeks later, I found myself at the mall, as one often did in the 1980s. My face had healed up to a small scab. But I felt something in my cheek. I could feel a hard, round object with the tip of my tongue. I asked a girl I knew to touch my cheek with her finger. Although this began as a ruse to make physical contact with a girl, I panicked when she shrieked upon feeling the same object I had.

My heart sank. The BB was clearly lodged inside of me. This would lead to cancer, I was certain, and possibly prison. Whatever the outcome, I knew I had to tell my Mother that I had lied and that we had fired our guns at each other, and my pump-action air rifle would be gone.

I opted for a mealy-mouthed, truthy version of what had happened. Not the version with the older boys and the crossfire, but it didn’t matter. I broke under my Mother’s enhanced interrogation techniques, which involved too much logic for my underdeveloped prefrontal cortex. “I already know you went to the gully with __________, who also has a BB gun. You told me you were with him when you lied about falling on a rock. Which I never believed. So you’re a confirmed liar already. So can I assume you two idiots shot at each other?” I stared back guiltily. “And may I also assume that __________, the third idiot, was with you?” Right then, I should have lied, but I just sunk. I was lower than a Vichy Frenchman.

When my Father confirmed the presence of this alien object in my face, they took me to the emergency room. An x-ray showed a perfectly round black dot against the bones of my skull.

The doctor told my parents there was no need to remove the BB. The wound had healed, and opening me up would leave a scar. My Mother feared my modeling career would be over before it began.

My Mother decided we would consult a plastic surgeon to remove this reminder of my failings as a Son and a friend.

A few days later, the local Sheriff knocked on our door to investigate the shooting. My Mother laughed at him.

Then, she put on a masterclass on how to stand up to questioning.

“It was a BB gun - they’re boys.”

“I understand that, ma’am. Do you have the weapon?”

“Do you mean the BB gun, officer? No, I threw it away.”

Maybe she had, maybe she had not.

“And what was the other boy’s name?”

“Do I have to tell you?”

“You actually could be arrested for not cooperating.”

“Then arrest me. Go ahead.”

She lifted her arms above her head in false surrender. Ultimately, the officer surrendered and walked away, giving her a stern warning.

Eventually, my mother made an appointment with a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills, apparently the only place that had plastic surgeons in those days.

“Keep it. It’s not going anywhere.”

I was shocked to hear the verdict that I could live with this foreign body inside of mine.

My Mother panicked. This didn’t seem right to her. But I looked at my old man. He knew he’d be forced to take another day off if they took it out because we’d have to come back. He just nodded at me, then the Doctor, and we left.

It took me a long time to get over the loss of my beloved BB gun. Two months had passed since the BB gun wars. But I’ll never forget the pure bliss of hiking down into that gully, shrouded by trees and ferns, that kept the soil damp and firing off a BB round into nothing but emptiness. It felt like freedom until it didn’t.

Even today, when I remember that I still have that tiny BB lodged in my cheek, I miss the great BB gun war and those free days.

I feel I finally understand one of the big themes in A Christmas Story after watching the musical this past weekend.

Ralphie nearly shoots his eye out when a ricocheted BB breaks his glasses.

The adult Ralphie, adding commentary as the story unfolds, tells us, “Oh, life is like that. Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us.”

Merry Christmas

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