Quick-Draw Woody

Quick-Draw Woody

         It was the summer of 1971 when Woody shot himself, and we all watched.

         I didn't want to go to the Everglades for target shooting. I’ve never liked guns, but my husband, John, insisted. “We’ll have fun. I promise we won’t shoot any animals, just tin cans.” I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of tagging along with the guys to go hiking through the swamp on a hot July afternoon just to shoot some tin cans. But being a newlywed, I wanted to please my husband. If nothing else, I thought, I'll keep them out of trouble.

         Marty, the quintessential Marine with the buff body, fatigues, and crew cut, was John's best friend. Woody, his cousin, was seventeen, five foot eight, carrot top, and terribly obese at 280 pounds. For the life of me, I couldn't see how John and he were related. John's a brunette, tall, slender, and good looking, so different from everyone else in his family. My brother, Jeff, went with us. He was twelve years old and very shy. He begged us to come and I couldn't say no. Jeff was only eight when our parents divorced and it hadn't been easy for him; he looked up to John as a father figure.

         We climbed into Marty’s 1970 Grand Prix V8 with the bench seat — Marty driving with John and Jeff in front and Woody in back with me — and headed west on I-75. After driving about fifty miles (which is midway between Ft. Lauderdale on the east coast and Naples on the west coast), we pulled off to the side of the road at the first area we came to where the canal stopped and the road was halfway dry.

         Back in 1971, I-75 was called Alligator Alley (obviously because it was full of alligators). It was only a two-lane highway with canals on both sides and only a few areas of dry land. Marty decided it wasn’t dry enough to drive the car off the roadway, so we parked it on the side of the highway. In those days, you could go shooting in the Everglades as long as you were a quarter mile from the highway.

         We got out of the car, artillery slung over our shoulders, and waded through patches of ankle-high swamp water heading for the dry area a hundred yards ahead. I quickly remarked, “Nobody told me to wear boots. You’re all wearing boots and I’m wearing tennis shoes. Are there snakes around here?”

         “We thought it’d be dry, honey” my husband said. “You’re fine in those tennis shoes. The water’s not too deep. We’ll get to the dry spot soon. Just watch out for water moccasins if the water gets a little deeper." Oh great!

         John had purchased a .22 caliber repeater rifle for me and he and Marty had carbines. I’m not sure why they needed carbines to shoot tin cans, but who am I to question a Marine. Woody carried a .22 caliber pistol in a holster strapped to his waist (or what he considered his waist). My brother didn't have a gun and said he just wanted to watch.

         Marty stacked the tin cans on a rock and began shooting with his carbine, as did my husband. After being a spectator for a while, my brother asked John to show him how to shoot. I shot a few tin cans with my rifle and was actually starting to enjoy myself. At one point, Marty spotted a snake and nailed it with his carbine. I stopped shooting and started looking out for more snakes.

         Woody started playing quick draw with his .22 pistol. “Hey guys, watch this,” he said. He’d yank the gun from the holster…shoot…return it to the holster…yank the gun out…shoot…return it to the holster…shoot…yank the gun out...oops.

         “I think I shot myself,” Woody said in a calm, disbelieving voice as he looked down at the calf of his left leg where blood was oozing out. Then he shouted, "I shot myself!"

         “Damn, Woody! Why’d you have to play quick draw?” John yelled as Marty and he raced over to hold him up, just as his knees started to buckle. Woody's eyes rolled back and he was turning a chalky white.

         "He could go into shock real soon," Marty said, yanking his belt off. "Sit him on the ground. I have to tie this belt above the wound to stop the bleeding." Once the belt was in place, John and Marty struggled to get Woody to stand. You can imagine how difficult it was to get a 280-pound dead weight to stand.

         “We’re going to have to help him to the car,” John said to Marty as they got on either side of him and put Woody's arms around each of their shoulders. "Can you give us a hand, Jeff?" John asked, but my brother took one look at the blood and all color left his face. “I gotta sit down. I think I’m gonna faint.”

         “Don't you dare faint Jeff!” I yelled. “We need you.” But Jeff wasn't moving so I got behind Woody and tried to keep him up by grabbing onto his belt and lifting. Unfortunately, the only thing I did was give him a significant wedgie.

         As we struggled to keep Woody walking, John said, “Don’t do it Woody. Don’t you dare faint. We’ve got to get you back to the car and we’re a quarter mile away.”

         Marty stopped a moment and shouted to me, “This isn't working. John and I will carry Woody; Sharon, you need to run back to the car and see if you can flag someone down. We’re going to have to get Woody to a hospital. Jeff, you’re going to have to carry all the rifles and Woody's gun.” My brother was scared and I was afraid he would faint, but he stepped to the plate and carried the guns. I was proud of him.

         I took off running through the swampy water in my tennis shoes heading for the car. If a snake bites me, at least we’re on our way to a hospital. When I reached the car, I was out of breath and wanted desperately to sit down, but I forgot to get the car keys.

         Normally, there are many cars on Alligator Alley on a Sunday afternoon, but of course, not today. As I stood by the car waiting, I could see them about fifty yards away. John and Marty were on either side of Woody dragging him along while poor little Jeff--looking like Rambo carrying Woody’s holster and gun with the carbines and rifle slung over his shoulders--was trailing behind. Marty and John squeezed Woody in the front seat so John could hold Woody's leg up, and Jeff got in back with me looking like he was going to vomit any second. “Don’t get sick on me, Jeff,” I said. He looked at me and smiled, "Don't worry, sis. I'm okay."

         Marty got behind the wheel, started the car and paused. “We’re halfway between Naples and Ft. Lauderdale. Take a pick. Do we head west to a hospital in Naples or east back to Ft. Lauderdale?” Woody managed to speak, “Take me to Naples, it won’t be as crowded.”

         Marty hit the accelerator and we headed west at about 80 mph (back in 1971, the speed limit was 55). Naples was a good hour’s drive, as was Ft. Lauderdale. Woody was in pain but holding up okay. Marty tried to ease our worries, "The bleeding appears to have stopped so we can assume the bullet didn't hit an artery." That made me feel a lot better, but Woody's face was a chalky white and I was worried he might go into shock, if he hadn’t already.

         We had been driving for about fifteen minutes at a constant 80 mph when I heard a noise that didn't sound right to me. “Marty, I hear something,” I said. “It’s a whistling noise. Maybe you better slow down.” No sooner had Marty slowed the car down to about 50 mph when the right rear tire blew, slinging rubber all over the road. Thankfully, Marty was able to maintain control until he pulled it off the highway, where there was very little ground between the shoulder and the canal.

         In 1971, there were no fences (like there are now) to keep out the alligators, but I chose not to remind them of that particular fact because they didn’t have a choice; they had to change the tire, so why upset them. While they were changing the tire, Woody passed out, and my brother wasn’t looking too good either.

         An hour later, we arrived at Naples Hospital. We stayed in the waiting room while they took Woody to emergency. Thirty minutes later, the doctor wheeled him out to us and explained. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take him back to Ft. Lauderdale. He’s allergic to penicillin so we can’t treat him here. From the x-rays, it appears that the bullet lodged in the fatty tissue of his calf and missed any major artery or bone. We’ve stopped the bleeding and patched him up (with only a band-aid!) so he should be okay until he gets to the hospital in Ft. Lauderdale.”

         Relieved that he wasn't in shock and not bleeding to death, Woody sat in back with me and Jeff sat in front with John and Marty. It was getting dark and we still had a two-hour drive to Ft. Lauderdale ahead of us.

         When we reached Broward General in Ft. Lauderdale, they took Woody to emergency while we all waited in the lobby. We hadn’t eaten or drank anything since breakfast so we raided the vending machines, assuming we'd be there a while.

         Thirty minutes later, the doctor wheeled him out and explained. “I’ve talked to his parents and we’ve decided not to operate. There is so much fatty tissue on his leg and we can't find the bullet; exploratory surgery would be worse for him. The bullet hasn’t hit anything major so we’re just going to leave it in there. It should work itself out one of these days. If not, we can always operate when he’s lost some weight.”

         On the way to his house, Woody perked up and was starting to look a little better. “Thanks guys. I’m sorry I put you through all this. It was really stupid of me."

         Feeling relieved that the day's events were behind us and Woody was going to be okay, John turned and said, "Forget it. We're just glad you're okay."

         Marty Iooked at Woody through the rear view mirror and was about to reiterate the same, but instead, his smile turned into a scowl and a spasm of irritation crossed his face when Woody nervously chuckled and divulged, "I guess it’s a good thing I took out the hollow points and replaced them with regular twenty-twos!”

Word count: 1827 (including title)