Sunday, August 13, 2006

Yikes. Just yikes...

On my way home on Friday, I made a quick stop Turners to pick up their weekend ad, and take a quick look around. I checked the ammo prices and hit the gun counter.

There was a middle-aged guy heavily sunned skin, tough hands and seriously toned (muscularly) arms in the process of buying a gun. "A working man," I thought to myself. He turned slightly to reveal a "Got work?" shirt with an X through a Canadian flag, "A working union man." I corrected myself.

When asked if he had any restraining orders against him he answered negatively, and added, "See, the thing about that question was that you don't always know if someone had a restraining order against you."

I then did something I only do in three places; attempted to strike up a conversation with a stranger. (the three places are; a gun shop, the range, and Defcon. Places where I feel I'm with like-minded people.) I turned to the gentleman and said, "What's worse is that if someone is after YOU, they can file a restraining order against you, which will require you to disarm before any judge sees it." (I head it a few places, and thought it to be true but haven't been able to confirmed it, so don't hold me to it!) (btw; bonus points to anyone who can find what I couldn't) The clerk excused himself to the back room to get some paperwork. The guy turned to me with a surprised look;

"So you're telling me that someone who wants me dead could file a restraining order against ME; and make me disarm???"
"Yes; that is my understanding."
"So you're telling ME that; hang on--"
He then picked up his wallet from the counter and started digging around in it. He produced a small wad of papers folded into a 2"x3" square, and bound by a rubber band.
"You're telling me..." He unbound the bundle, and a collection of folded magazine and newspaper clippings spilled onto the counter. "...that if..." He picked up a magazine clipping and unfolded it to reveal several highlighted lines, and pointed to a name in the highlighted portion, "...this guy, [insert Italian name here], from the [insert Italian last name here] mob could file a restraining order against ME, and make ME give up my gun?!"
"...That is my understanding." I said with what was probably the first deer-in-the-headlights look I'd worn in years.
"Hang on!" he proclaimed to everyone and no one as he returned to his clippings.

He then went through the exact same conversation, no less than three times, interchanging different highlighted Italian names from different news clippings. This is why I said [insert Italian name here], by the end of this exchange I had had more Italian names thrown at me than I'd probably heard in a year. As he went on, I stopped listening and began to notice that his hands were shaking slightly, which showed to me that he was getting severely agitated. I noticed his left eye, which, in accordance with every cliche you've ever heard, was twitching like someone just poured sand into it. I began to realize that this fellow wasn't just telling me something he knew, he was SHOWING me, with information that he saw fit to carry on his person at all times.

By this time people at the counter were taking baby steps away from our friend here; even the clerk who was about to return was standing just on the other side of the doorway to the back room, waiting. I still gave him the benefit of the doubt; sure, he was worked up about something serious; but that certainly doesn't make you a nut.

I spoke when he took a breath; "Look, if you've something to fear from these mobsters; file a restraining order against them. It will almost guarantee you a concealed carry permit. What county do you live in?"

He lifted his shirt to reveal a large vertical scar up the center of his stomach, and said that the [Italian name] family tried to poison him, so he definitely had something to fear from them. "That's why I need this gun! And if I can't get it here; I'll have to pick one up off the street." He said that he lived in Orange, but it didn't matter, because the [insert yet another Italian name here] family had [insert a number of random names here] on the take, and had their tentacles in all parts of the west coast; from the government and unions down to the DMV and the PTA. He then picked up two slides from his collection, held them to the light, and told me that they were pictures of him as a kid holding the Emmy from The Godfather. (Not sure why; to prove his mob affiliation?)

Let there be no doubt; by this time I wanted to get end this conversation, when he produced the final straw; who killed JFK. At this point I was ready to point behind him, and run away when he looked. Fortunately for me, I didn't have to because the clerk entered (tired of his nonsense, no doubt) and reclaimed his attention long enough for me to escape.

I'm going to have to remember to thank him later...

1 comment:

blogagog said...

Rut roh. I hope he wasn't 'like minded' to you :)