the hard lump on your hip. Guns make people react in unpredictable ways. If the wrong person learns you’re carrying a gun, he might whack you on the head to get it.” For the same reason, we were not to put up one of those PROTECTED BY SMITH & WESSON lawn signs or, on the car, the bumper sticker KEEP HONKING, I ’ M RELOADING . “A guy who sees one of those is likely to follow you to a parking lot,” Judy said, “and when you leave the car, smash the window to get your gun.”
As we were getting ready to pack up at the end of class, Dick handed around a card with what I first took to be a Transportation Security Administration threat assessment. It was, in fact, a way of thinking about readiness when carrying a gun. Condition White was total ignorance of one’s surroundings on the street—sleeping, being drunk or stoned, losing oneself in conversation or—the ultimate in modern oblivion—texting while listening to an iPod. Condition Yellow was being aware of, and taking an interest in, one’s surroundings. This was akin to the mental state we were encouraged to achieve while driving: keeping our eyes moving, checking the mirrors, being careful not to let the radio drown out the sounds around us. Condition Orange was awareness of a possible threat. Condition Red was responding to one.
“You should be in Condition Yellow whenever you’re on the street, whether armed or not,” Dick said, “but especially if you are wearing your gun. When you’re in Condition White, you’re a victim. You’re a sheep.”
The role Dick wanted us to play when out in public was that of “sheepdog”—alert, on guard, not aggressive but prepared to do battle on behalf of the defenseless. A handout from the American Tactical Shooting Association noted that the only time to be in Condition White was “when in your own home, with the doors locked, the alarm system on, and your dog at your feet.… The instant you leave your home, you escalate one level, to Condition Yellow.” The instant? Really? Like if I’m riding to the store in the morning for the paper and a carton of milk? Or on my way to a PTA meeting in the middle of the afternoon? And what’s this about alarms?
It turned out I was the kind of person who was contributing to a dangerous softening of society. Just as the Red Cross would have liked everybody to be qualified in cardiopulmonary resuscitation, gun carrierswanted everybody prepared to confront violence—not only by being armed but by maintaining Condition Yellow. “I believe that in my afterlife I will be judged,” Dick said solemnly. “Part of the judgment will be: Did this guy look after himself? It’s a minimum responsibility.”
I submitted my certificate of instruction to Sheriff Pelle, allowed a deputy to take my fingerprints, and settled in for a wait that could last, under Colorado law, as long as ninety days. “Due to the high volume of concealed-carry-license applications,” a recording on the sheriff’s phone line said, “do not expect your license before ninety days and do not call this office to inquire.” In Boulder!
While waiting for the permit, I went shopping for a holster in which to carry the Detective Special. Colt stopped making my particular model in 1972, so a holster wasn’t something I could order from Amazon. I figured I’d find heaps of old holsters at the monthly Tanner Gun Show, at the Denver Merchandise Mart, and drove down one snowy Saturday to rummage the offerings.
I never got inside. As I approached the desk to pay my entry fee, a young woman handed me a piece of paper and said, “Concealed-carry class beginning
right now
!” I looked at the paper. A company called Equip 2 Conceal was offering a class right here at the gun show that would qualify pupils to get a Colorado concealed-carry permit—in three hours. This I had to see.
She directed me across the parking lot to the Aspen Room of the Comfort Inn, where tables had been lined up classroom style and a
As we were getting ready to pack up at the end of class, Dick handed around a card with what I first took to be a Transportation Security Administration threat assessment. It was, in fact, a way of thinking about readiness when carrying a gun. Condition White was total ignorance of one’s surroundings on the street—sleeping, being drunk or stoned, losing oneself in conversation or—the ultimate in modern oblivion—texting while listening to an iPod. Condition Yellow was being aware of, and taking an interest in, one’s surroundings. This was akin to the mental state we were encouraged to achieve while driving: keeping our eyes moving, checking the mirrors, being careful not to let the radio drown out the sounds around us. Condition Orange was awareness of a possible threat. Condition Red was responding to one.
“You should be in Condition Yellow whenever you’re on the street, whether armed or not,” Dick said, “but especially if you are wearing your gun. When you’re in Condition White, you’re a victim. You’re a sheep.”
The role Dick wanted us to play when out in public was that of “sheepdog”—alert, on guard, not aggressive but prepared to do battle on behalf of the defenseless. A handout from the American Tactical Shooting Association noted that the only time to be in Condition White was “when in your own home, with the doors locked, the alarm system on, and your dog at your feet.… The instant you leave your home, you escalate one level, to Condition Yellow.” The instant? Really? Like if I’m riding to the store in the morning for the paper and a carton of milk? Or on my way to a PTA meeting in the middle of the afternoon? And what’s this about alarms?
It turned out I was the kind of person who was contributing to a dangerous softening of society. Just as the Red Cross would have liked everybody to be qualified in cardiopulmonary resuscitation, gun carrierswanted everybody prepared to confront violence—not only by being armed but by maintaining Condition Yellow. “I believe that in my afterlife I will be judged,” Dick said solemnly. “Part of the judgment will be: Did this guy look after himself? It’s a minimum responsibility.”
I submitted my certificate of instruction to Sheriff Pelle, allowed a deputy to take my fingerprints, and settled in for a wait that could last, under Colorado law, as long as ninety days. “Due to the high volume of concealed-carry-license applications,” a recording on the sheriff’s phone line said, “do not expect your license before ninety days and do not call this office to inquire.” In Boulder!
While waiting for the permit, I went shopping for a holster in which to carry the Detective Special. Colt stopped making my particular model in 1972, so a holster wasn’t something I could order from Amazon. I figured I’d find heaps of old holsters at the monthly Tanner Gun Show, at the Denver Merchandise Mart, and drove down one snowy Saturday to rummage the offerings.
I never got inside. As I approached the desk to pay my entry fee, a young woman handed me a piece of paper and said, “Concealed-carry class beginning
right now
!” I looked at the paper. A company called Equip 2 Conceal was offering a class right here at the gun show that would qualify pupils to get a Colorado concealed-carry permit—in three hours. This I had to see.
She directed me across the parking lot to the Aspen Room of the Comfort Inn, where tables had been lined up classroom style and a
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