My Brief Foray Into Gun Ownership

Years ago, when I had a bit of free time in a less than desirable location, I thought it might be fun to learn how to use a gun, both to boost my badass image and to enable myself to deter threats from local creepy gropers.  I imagined myself enjoying afternoons at the firing range in a place where, as I discovered, there was pretty much nothing else to do.  Having grown up in hunting country, I knew that I could count on a family member to supply me with a spare rifle, and so we arranged to have one transferred (a legal way to transport guns across state lines) to a local gun dealer.  Of course the very liberal town that I found myself in had no such dealer, being anti-gun and all, and so I had to go further afield.

A recently transplanted New Yorker with a substantially Parisian wardrobe, I hopped into my [foreign car] to drive out into the countryside and collect my newly arrived rifle.  After about forty-five minutes of driving on two lane roads through what would best be described as a wasteland, I arrived at the gun dealer.  Or had I?  Because the location where I had arrived was nothing more than an assemblage of trailers with overgrown grass and a dirt driveway.

I parked my car and both chicly and cautiously approached the door of what appeared to be the main trailer, opening the door in what felt to be slow motion.  I glimpsed the back wall of the trailer, which had been completely covered in guns of various shapes and sizes that were for sale.  Over to the right, there was an elongated, low glass case that served as a counter and as a holding area for various gun accessories and types of ammunition.  And to my far right, seated in a rickety wooden chair next to said counter, was an old man wearing a baseball cap and overalls without a shirt underneath.  My arrival caused a bit of a commotion, and an additional person was almost immediately summoned from the back.  I felt reassured by the fact that this second person was wearing a shirt.

Upon being greeted by said man, I announced my name and address, stating that I was at the dealer to pick up a rifle that had been transferred, and we got down to business.  However, I was not about to escape unscathed.  First, the two men made fun of my town and all of the "crazy liberals" living there.  Granted, a hippie town where someone on the board of the food co-op is named "Third Moon of Saturn" is ripe for such commentary.  I didn't fit in there, either, although I perhaps fit in there better than in the trailer.

Then, they made fun of my gun.  So, the rifle was rather dainty, but did they think I would be hunting rhinos or trying to take down moose?  I thought that the rather compact camo case was adorable, having always loved a touch of camo as a fashion statement.  The comments just didn't stop about my "child's" gun, a model that was often used by the ten-year-olds in their rifleman social circle, before they graduated to using real guns that is.

And then there was the final offense.  The two men, excited to hear that I wanted to learn, informed me of what good shots women generally are.  At that point, shirtless man, apparently the owner of the neighboring trailer, issued a personal invitation for me to come over to his trailer and learn to shoot off of his front porch. 

Not wanting my disappearance to be a plot point on the next episode of America's Most Wanted, I politely declined, never returning to that corner of the state.  I never did learn how to shoot, either, afraid of who I might encounter upon any subsequent attempts.  The rifle and 150 rounds of ammo sat on my closet floor for months as a reminder while I hastened my permanent return to civilization.