I didn’t actually see the beer bottle when it was thrown over the fence, but I heard it. I heaved myself off the couch and ran to the backyard to investigate. There it was, quite empty and apparently harmless, but it marred the uniformed cut grass like an ugly tattoo.
Clutching the offending instrument in my hand, I marched back through the living room and headed towards the front yard to do something reckless. Chris always gets nervous when I start acting like this. He was saying something about being “reasonable” or “cooling down first,” but it was hard to hear him over the stamp of my feet and the slamming of the door as I went marching to deliver swift and certain justice to the trash-throwing assailant.
I catapulted onto my porch and swiveled right, searching the landscape for the sketchy neighborhood kid that I knew would be there. There he was, holding a fresh beer and looking guilty. With a flash of boldness fueled by a red-hot righteous anger, I held the bottle over my head and bellowed, “Did you throw this in my yard?”
My outburst caught me a little by surprise, but it scared the hell out of the neighbor kid. His face registered a hybrid mixture of surprise and pure unadulterated fear, not unlike a horror movie when the dumb blonde is about to get the ax by some guy wearing a hockey mask.
“I’ve had it with this!” I yelled with complete conviction as if I had patiently endured mounds of trash steadily growing in my yard. My husband later reminded me that this was the first time anything like this had happened, but that was beside the point. It turns out that I am not a particularly patient person.
Poor Chris came running out of the house after me and in that maddeningly ingratiating manner which makes him much more likeable and popular than I can ever hope to be, soothed things over by saying things like “misunderstanding” and “please don’t let it happen again” and other things that sensible people say to the people they live next door to.
I told my mother about the incident a few days later.
“I wouldn’t have done that,” she warned.
“Why? I’m not going to just let them throw that stuff in my yard. It’s insulting! This place is junky enough without turning my backyard into a trash can.” That much was true. My neighborhood isn’t exactly violent, it’s more like Kirstie Alley- a complete wreck but totally harmless. The point is, my backyard doesn’t need the extra trash any more than Kirstie needs a cupcake.
“I still wouldn’t have done that,” my mother continued, the ominous tone of her voice reflecting the grave danger I had put myself in.
“A long time ago when we lived in that house on Ridgley, I used to watch this guy who would meet someone on the corner and do drugs-“
“You saw them doing drugs right there on the street?”
“Well no, of course not, but it was clear they were up to something. They were so secretive and it was always around the same time, so I made it a point to go out in the yard so they would know that I was watching them.”
I could just picture my little mother peering through the windows or surreptitiously watering the flowers, her eyes narrowing disapprovingly while the neighbor traded some cash for a crumpled paper bag filled with gobs of some sort of illegal substance.
“But then one day, the drug dealer’s little daughter came over and asked if she could borrow a cup of sugar and I thought how nice it was that we were finally getting along. Well, we weren’t. The next day my car wouldn’t start. We took it to the shop and guess what they said.”
“I have no earthly idea.”
My mother paused suspensefully before continuing, “They said that sugar had been poured into the gas tank!”
“They ruined your car with the sugar you gave to them?” Now that, I thought, was a particularly clever thing to do. I mentally stored this little stroke of genius away under “Brilliant Way of Getting Even with my Enemies.”
Even though I am fairly sure that my neighbors aren’t drug dealers, I usually listen to my mother, especially when she is using her serious voice. I decided that I should probably take measures to protect myself just in case the neighbors came after me with something more threatening than an empty beer bottle.
Since college, I’ve slept with a hand-me-down golf club next to my bed. “This is the best putter I’ve ever owned,” my father said when he gave it to me, which made me immediately skeptical of why exactly he was giving it away. Nonetheless, this three-foot stick of forged steel weighs a ton and I imagine it could put a fair sized divot in any would-be-attacker’s forehead, which is why I kept it by my bed instead of in my golf bag.
With my mother’s warning still ringing in my ears, I decided it was high-time I traded in my putter for a pistol and as luck would have it, the gun show was in town.
We drove downtown to an old sports arena where a huge banner proudly proclaimed “GUN SHOW” on the front windows, as if you didn’t get the clue by all of the trucks, confederate flags, and NRA bumper stickers that filled the parking lot.
As we approached the front doors, I saw a man emerge, pull a gun he had recently purchased out of a bag, and insert it into the front of his pants leaving only the handle visible. I thought about turning around and going home, but then I decided people like that was exactly the reason I needed a gun so I squared my shoulders and walked right in.
I was immediately surrounded by large bearded men, most of which had brought guns from home to sell, trade, or simply show-off. I began to wish I had a studded buckskin and heavy-duty boots instead of a designer purse and flip-flops so that I might fit in a little better with the rest of the people in attendance.
The basketball court had been transformed into a magical place, like Disney on Ice, but better because instead of frozen water and costumes, the hardwood was now the ground floor of an arsenal that would suit the military needs of a small country. In long orderly rows, hundreds of folding tables each blanketed in tarps or bed sheets were loaded down with as many firearms that could fit on the flat surface. Other vendors sold enormous amounts of ammunition, knives of all sizes, and a surprising variety of martial arts throwing stars. One seller specialized in targets. Not content to carry only the regulation bullseye, he also offered posters of Bin Laden, ninjas, and men in ski masks with a target transposed over their faces for your shooting practice and pleasure.
I made the rounds slowly, carefully fingering the triggers and admiring the shiny barrels of these wonderful killing machines. After serious consideration, I had decided I wanted a revolver, primarily because it was the easiest to load.
“I want that one,” I told Chris, my index finger extended like the pistol I wanted to buy.
“Are you sure?”
“Does the Pope live in the woods? Is a bear Catholic?” I asked, mimicking a clever line I read in one of Tobias Wolff’s books that I am constantly trying to insert into conversation whether it fits or not.
Not completely convinced by my strange logic, Chris brought the gun in question to a rather intimidating woman standing on the other side of the table which meant she was in charge and as far as I could tell, knew everything about everything when it came to guns and probably chewing tobacco, too.
“Would this be a good gun for her?” Chris asked, gesturing to me.
“What does she shoot now?”
“She doesn’t shoot anything. She doesn’t have a gun.” The woman’s eyebrows shot up, but after eyeing me over I could tell she wasn’t entirely surprised. She and Chris continued the conversation as if I was not present, the way adults and salesmen talk when you buy a kid a pair of shoes.
“Well, is this going to be her purse gun?”
“Her purse gun? Well no, it’s just for her to have at home, for protection.”
The woman nodded her head approvingly, “Then that will be fine. For purse guns I usually recommend something a little smaller. I can help you find her a good little purse gun if you want to get one of those too.”
“Just this for now.”
Chris filled out some paperwork, the lady called some 1-800 number to make sure we weren’t convicts, and $350 dollars later, I walked out with a Ruger .357 Magnum. I thought about sticking it into the front of my pants but Chris told me that was a stupid idea.
I have always had a natural ability at video games that require firing a gun: Area 51, Carnival King, Big Buck Hunter, I am master of them all. I take pride in blasting “K”, “D”, and “W” on each and every leader board I come across. So I was more than slightly surprised to find that all of my virtual training resulted in zero skill when it came to firing an actual weapon. I’ve shot that gun maybe 50 times and I probably hit what I was aiming for twice which the more pessimistic might argue is a relatively low shooting percentage.
Because I’m not any good at shooting, I’ve decided to focus my talents on loading because chances are I’m going to have to reload at least once before I successfully hit my attacker. I practice loading all the time and though I say it myself, I am quite good at it.
I have not actually had to fire my gun in self-defense, but I have had several close calls, mostly because my garage door is bogus and opens and closes at will. On more than one occasion, I have come home by myself and have found that damn garage door has opened again, an invitation for any would-be attackers and robbers as we are too lazy to actually lock the entry door into the house.
Before I had my gun, I would preemptively dial 911 on my phone before cautiously entering the house and checking every room, closet, and under all the beds to make sure no one was hiding there before I could relax. Having a gun has changed my game plan.
Now when I come home to an open garage door, I know it’s just a chance for me to practice my gun skills. I barge into the house like I own the place because I do own the place. I sprint to my room and grab the gun which I always keep in my nightstand next to my Bible. With remarkable speed, I throw five bullets into the chamber and snap it shut.
“I have a gun!” I yell, like I’m Jack Bauer on 24. “Get out of my house NOW!” I kick in the guest room door, pointing the gun wildly around the room just looking for half a chance to shoot it.
When I don’t hear anyone, I grow braver. “You better get out now because I will hunt you down and I will shoot you!” I mean these words too. If you’re fool enough to break into my house you better be prepared to face the deadly consequences.
I wait a few more minutes and when nobody comes out of the shadows begging for forgiveness, I go and sit on the couch and prop up my feet like I’m Al Pachino in Scarface.
I keep the gun on the coffee table for the rest of the night, just in case.
