came into his house. “There are some prohibitations about that,” Gary said as he drew, pointed, and reholstered his orange gun yet again. I wasn’t even sure he knew that he was doing it. “It could be bad if you shot a burglar who turned out to be unarmed. It would depend on the jury.”
“What about if he’s, like, on the way out the door with my flat-panel TV,” the Jawa said.
Gary chuckled. “I don’t think anybody here would let a guy walk out of their house with their forty-eight-inch flat-panel,” he said. “You can say ‘Stop!’ and if he sets it down and comes at you, you’re justified.”
“And if he runs away?” the Jawa asked.
“Now he knows you won’t shoot, and he’s going to come shopping at your house again.”
I raised my hand. “So shoot him?”
Gary chuckled again, drawing and reholstering, drawing and reholstering. “If your aim is good, you have time to get your story straight before I get there.”
On the fourth and final night, Dick and Judy talked about various ways to carry guns. Dick had on cargo pants and a jacket, under which he saidhe was concealing thirteen of them. “These are unloaded, and there is
never
any live ammo in this room,” he said. He drew his guns, one by one, and laid them on a table in a kind of weird lethal striptease: five from his belt, inside and outside the waistband of his pants, two from his ankles, two from his front pockets, two from hidden pockets in a spandex undershirt designed for concealed carry, and two from a wide elastic band that wrapped around his midsection like a truss. It was like watching clowns tumbling out of a VW; it went on and on. “Really, though, I think two would suffice,” he said.
For the benefit of the woman in the class, Judy used her .38 snub-nose to model various holsters made to fit the female body. She waved the gun around, showing it at her hip, at the small of her back, and in her purse, then stopped suddenly and peered closely at it. “Oh shit,” she said, her face reddening. She opened the revolver and dumped out five live cartridges.
Into the appalled silence, Dick ventured: “Object lesson in rule number one: All guns are always loaded!” He grinned, as though they’d planned all along to have Judy wave a loaded gun at us.
Carrying a gun was only one component of the new lifestyle Dick and Judy wanted us to adopt. The world into which they had invited us required us to keep on our nightstand our gun, glasses, cell phone, and flashlight. If we didn’t like the idea of keeping an unsecured gun in the open, we could bolt to the wall beside the bed one of several available electronic safes that opened with a push-button code. “Every night before closing my eyes, I repeat the code aloud,” Dick said.
“Make your house uninviting,” Judy said. “Put up good exterior lighting. Clear away shrubbery where someone could hide.”
“But plant thorny bushes under the windows,” added Dick.
I was conjuring an image of my house on a denuded lot, bathed in halogen light, with thornbushes bunched under every window like barbed wire, when Judy carried my imagination inside.
“In your home you should know where your safe-fire zones are,” she said. “Figure out where you can stand and shoot without the bullet going outside or into the neighbor’s house.”
“You men, if you sleep in the nude, might want to rethink that. Men aren’t comfortable fighting naked. It’s something to consider.”
“Always expect the worst.”
If there was a line here between preparing for something awful to happen and praying for something awful to happen, I was having a hard time finding it.
But Dick and Judy left us with a piece of good advice: Concealed means
concealed
. You don’t show people your gun, you don’t tell people you’re carrying. If someone asks about it, you change the subject. “If someone goes to hug you,” Judy said, “make sure your arms are in the inside position so they don’t feel
“What about if he’s, like, on the way out the door with my flat-panel TV,” the Jawa said.
Gary chuckled. “I don’t think anybody here would let a guy walk out of their house with their forty-eight-inch flat-panel,” he said. “You can say ‘Stop!’ and if he sets it down and comes at you, you’re justified.”
“And if he runs away?” the Jawa asked.
“Now he knows you won’t shoot, and he’s going to come shopping at your house again.”
I raised my hand. “So shoot him?”
Gary chuckled again, drawing and reholstering, drawing and reholstering. “If your aim is good, you have time to get your story straight before I get there.”
On the fourth and final night, Dick and Judy talked about various ways to carry guns. Dick had on cargo pants and a jacket, under which he saidhe was concealing thirteen of them. “These are unloaded, and there is
never
any live ammo in this room,” he said. He drew his guns, one by one, and laid them on a table in a kind of weird lethal striptease: five from his belt, inside and outside the waistband of his pants, two from his ankles, two from his front pockets, two from hidden pockets in a spandex undershirt designed for concealed carry, and two from a wide elastic band that wrapped around his midsection like a truss. It was like watching clowns tumbling out of a VW; it went on and on. “Really, though, I think two would suffice,” he said.
For the benefit of the woman in the class, Judy used her .38 snub-nose to model various holsters made to fit the female body. She waved the gun around, showing it at her hip, at the small of her back, and in her purse, then stopped suddenly and peered closely at it. “Oh shit,” she said, her face reddening. She opened the revolver and dumped out five live cartridges.
Into the appalled silence, Dick ventured: “Object lesson in rule number one: All guns are always loaded!” He grinned, as though they’d planned all along to have Judy wave a loaded gun at us.
Carrying a gun was only one component of the new lifestyle Dick and Judy wanted us to adopt. The world into which they had invited us required us to keep on our nightstand our gun, glasses, cell phone, and flashlight. If we didn’t like the idea of keeping an unsecured gun in the open, we could bolt to the wall beside the bed one of several available electronic safes that opened with a push-button code. “Every night before closing my eyes, I repeat the code aloud,” Dick said.
“Make your house uninviting,” Judy said. “Put up good exterior lighting. Clear away shrubbery where someone could hide.”
“But plant thorny bushes under the windows,” added Dick.
I was conjuring an image of my house on a denuded lot, bathed in halogen light, with thornbushes bunched under every window like barbed wire, when Judy carried my imagination inside.
“In your home you should know where your safe-fire zones are,” she said. “Figure out where you can stand and shoot without the bullet going outside or into the neighbor’s house.”
“You men, if you sleep in the nude, might want to rethink that. Men aren’t comfortable fighting naked. It’s something to consider.”
“Always expect the worst.”
If there was a line here between preparing for something awful to happen and praying for something awful to happen, I was having a hard time finding it.
But Dick and Judy left us with a piece of good advice: Concealed means
concealed
. You don’t show people your gun, you don’t tell people you’re carrying. If someone asks about it, you change the subject. “If someone goes to hug you,” Judy said, “make sure your arms are in the inside position so they don’t feel
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