“That’s illegal in 37 states,” He said.
I was about to apologize for handling his merchandise, after all, I was at a Montana gun show, but then I realized he was speaking about the gun itself.

Booth #107 was registered to one Rusty Potter.

“I can tell you like my glasses. Make an offer,” He said.
“That’s ok, I was just-”
“Trying to tell which direction I was looking? Aren’t they great? Here, try them on.”

He offered the glasses for me to try on. I took them, hoping that the fondling and few turns of perspective would be enough to appease him.

“Go ahead, put ‘em on and I’ll try to see where you’re looking.”

I put on the glasses and the interior of the fair grounds pole building went nearly black.

“I can hardly see anything.”
“Aren’t they great. They’re state issued. To cops that is.”
“Why are they so dark?” His joy must have made him hard of hearing. He didn’t respond.

“Ok look at something. Are you looking?”

I placed my gaze on a small handgun in the far corner of the table.

“Ok.”

Rusty lay an arm across his ample belly and put his other hand to his chin. He squinted, narrowing his eyes to emerald slivers.

“You’re looking at that blonde over by the Holstein pens.”
“Nope.”
“I hope not cause that’s my wife you soma’ bitch.”
“Didn’t even see her.”
“Ok, hold on, I can get this.”

Rusty really squinted now. From my self contained darkness I could of swore he had his eyes closed. But when he drew back his fist and threw it towards my face, implanting an eagle, his class ring mascot into my chin, I realized his eyes weren’t closed. The glasses flew off my face and hit the ground shortly after I did. I looked up at him in hazy amazement.

“What was that for.”
“You weren’t looking at my crotch?”
“What? No!”
“Oh. Those glasses work real good,” He said.
“Too good.”

I rose to my feet and handed Rusty back his real good real bent glasses.

“Real sorry about that.”

I mustered a polite smile despite my aching jaw.

“Let me make it up to you. What do you like? Twenty bucks takes it.”

He clapped his hands and spread his arms out like an over zealous Vegas dealer. My eyes went back to the small gun in the far corner. Something about it, I think it must have been its miniature unthreatening size, kept drawing me back to it.

“That one.” I said and pointed to the pea shooter.
“Excellent choice.”

Excellent I’m sure because that’s all he could ever hope to get for it. Boy what I wouldn’t give to have the guts to point to the piece that looked like a tank gun. I’d like to hear him say “excellent” to that.

He took the gun and popped the clip to show me it wasn’t loaded, then wrapped it in a wade of newspaper like a flea market vase. He then wrapped half a yard of masking tape around the wad. I wondered if John Law would consider this an acceptable firearm carrying case. I left well enough alone and handed him my twenty bucks.

“Will you be needing bullets today, sir?”

Sir? Two minutes ago this guy had laid me out for looking at his crotch, which, by the way, I did(I don’t know why, my eyes just drifted there). Now he’s calling me sir. A gun, or gun wad, really does get you respect.

“Yes, I guess I will,” I said.
“Can’t shoot the damn thing without any bullets. What good would it be then?”

Yes, what good is a wad gun without any wad bullets.

“Tell you what, I’ll throw them in free of charge, cause I like you.”
“Thanks.”

He put the gun and bullets into a bag and handed it to me.

“You go right on ahead and do what that bag says.”

The bag had rows of smiley faces and at the bottom said “Have a nice day”. How pleasant and dangerously mislabeled.

I took the bag and walked away, hoping, although the experience had been unique, never to run into Rusty Potter again.

As I left, I accidentally went past the Holstein pens and more importantly, Mrs. Rusty Potter. She was speaking to a young man in a shirt that read: Bad attitude, Good aim. I must have been staring because she stopped listening to Mr. Good Aim and stared at me as I passed.
I looked back to Rusty. He was watching me. I turned back towards the exit nearly running into Mrs. Rusty. She just smiled. I gave her a quick yet cautious nod so as not to get myself into trouble with hubby. One eagle dimple would serve well enough, two would just be bragging.

In the car I unwrapped my new gun. A gun. I had just bought a gun. Maybe it was the brief altercation, the crack to the jaw, which made me buy it. Maybe Rusty was the most successful businessman there, laying someone out every 5 or 7 minutes until his table was cleared. A glimpse of fear is good motivation to want to protect yourself somehow.

On the side of the barrel was etched J.M. Who was J.M. and why did they carry such a small gun? It must have been a Jan or Jenny. This was definitely a girl’s gun if I ever saw one. But how many guns had I ever seen. Let’s just settle it by saying you’d never catch Dirty Harry brandishing this saucy sidearm.

Literature