Sometimes my brain goes into sleep mode, like when I’m standing in line somewhere or between events at a four hour track meet. It must be some kind of preprogrammed human coping mechanism to keep blood pressure in check or maybe prevent mob rioting and mass murder. It clearly doesn’t work all the time, based on daily news reports. And millennials must have dropped the gene in their short evolution. They’ve been conditioned to stand contently in endless lines, with the ultimate reward being the latest iteration of a two by four inch electronic distraction.
I found myself going into default sleep mode the other day. On my way to Joe’s track meet I stopped at a gun shop to look at the latest offering by Sig Arms, the P320RX. (As firearms go, it’s got a coolness factor of a solid nine.) I had every intention of purchasing so my planned time over target was going to be short, allowing plenty of time to get to Joe’s meet a few miles away.
I was happy to see the store wasn’t busy. I talked with a helpful guy at the counter and quickly closed the deal. I filled out the Federal Firearms form detailing that I’m not an illegal alien, fugitive from justice, drug addict, wife beater, or (known) psychopath. (Because if I was, I would DEFINITELY answer those questions honestly.) The counter guy reviewed the form and said he’d be back in a few minutes.
The store was quiet. Kind of peaceful after a long noisy day at work. I could hear a fountain in the distance. My brain slipped into sleep mode.
But as sleep mode goes, it can be easily triggered to bright-screen awake with a simple input. Mine at that moment was a tall slender form in rhinestone studded jeans with shoulder length brown hair, feathered back in a classic Farrah Fawcett. I’m married but Charlie’s Angels hair… and donuts… cause instant-wake.
She stood with her back to me about ten feet away. Tall. Almost too thin. I wondered what her story was. How did she end up working with guns? Was her dad a gun guy? Hunter? Outdoorsman?
She turned slowly in my direction and caught me staring. Busted. God, there’s no worse feeling. That inescapable hand-in-the-cookie-jar moment with the only appropriate response being, “Oh, hi! Can you tell me where to find gun cleaner?”
It was a guy.
I had been a looking at one of Charlie’s new millennium Angels. What began as a shiny wake- trigger morphed to a full-on panicked frozen-screen mind-virus. I stood there helplessly, incapable of uttering a word. All I could do was look away, as if distracted. But the store was empty. There were no distractions.
“Vince. We’re all set!” Came the voice of the counter guy as he returned. SAVED! Farrah glanced back a few times as I stood at the counter, then faded into the store.
The counter guy explained that gun sale approvals were taking unusually long and that I should “hang out” for a while. After my Charlie’s Angel experience, hanging out was not an option. I explained that I was on my way to my son’s track meet and would stop by the next day for pick up.
After work the next day, I drove to the gun shop about forty minutes away. I had forgotten about the rhinestone embarrassment the day before until I saw Farrah, one of three clerks working the gun pickup counter. There were two other clerks. I’ll call them Chuck and Bill. Not their names but they were obviously a “Chuck” and a “Bill.” Burly gun guys.
I was the fifth person in line and hoped Chuck or Bill’s counter would open. I didn’t want to deal with Farrah and have to pretend to understand the whole transgender thing. I honestly don’t care how they live their lives. I just don’t want there to be the expectation that I should understand and then have to pretend to care about their life choices.
The line budged forward. One by one. Like ants. Customers tailing off to counter positions as they became available. Farrah glanced up at the line several times as her customer completed a gun transfer form.
LUCK! Chuck’s window opened at the far end of the counter when my turn came. I gave him my receipt from the day before. “Thanks Vince! Lemme just double check approval and we’ll get you on your way. It’ll take just a couple minutes. Sit tight. I’ll be right back with ya,” he said as he walked into an office behind the counter.
After a few minutes of standing idle at the counter, sleep mode kicked in.
“Heeeeeeyyyyeeee….”
“Heyyyeeeee…”
A soft wake trigger came from my left. I turned in the direction of the voice. Farrah was looking in my direction. She was seated behind the counter, her chin resting in her hands with fingers along her face.
“Heyyyyyyeee”
It wasn’t a “Hey!” Like, “Hey buddy, know where I can find the 223 ammo?” It was a lilting, sing-songy wave tone “heeeeeeyyyyyeeee.” The “hey” you’d get from an old girlfriend when you awkwardly run into each other at a restaurant and you’re more likely to hug than stab each other.
I looked over my right and left shoulders hoping she was addressing a coworker or maybe her dog that had followed her to work. I was the only one there and pointed to myself as if to say, “me?” She nodded.
“Are ya lookin’ for a holessssster?” She asked.
“Holster?” I thought. “What the hell does that mean?” (The double entendre being scary-obvious.)
“No!” I shot back. “Not sure what I’m looking for…. I mean, I just got this thing and I don’t know what will fit best… My brother’s got one and I’m going to try his first. Holster… His holster… Not sure what he’s got…”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “Let me know if I can help.”
Chuck came back to his counter in the midst of my stammering response. “OK Vince. You’re all set,” and handed me the case.
I laughed out loud as I walked across the parking lot to my truck. It occurred to me that Farrah was messing with me after my transgender faux pas the day before. Being “simple” I didn’t realize.