“You can win a pistol!!!” I remove the white chiclet gum,  

    which I have been chewing so long it’s lost flavor,  

from under my tongue. I hand it to the woman  

    in the striped uniform. It costs to play. The woman smiles—  

“Thanks, ma’am.” She puts the gum under one of three

    beautiful shells before her. These are the rules. It is fun!  

Each shell is ivory, tinted with curls of blush. I must choose  

    which one looks most like me. The one on the left, I point. She smiles  

and pulls back the shell. Underneath is not my soul.  

    Underneath is a gun shimmering blue-grey like cloudbanks.  

“Sorry, sir. You lost. But you still get a prize if you want.” I palm  

    the gun and slip it into my waistband. Not a wicked weapon.  

My mother told me I did not have a soul when I was younger.  

    She tried to beat the evil from me. She would not have done this  

if I’d had a gun, I think. Many people assume you have neither a soul  

    nor a gun. They act accordingly. You should probably have at least one.