My Father’s Colt 1911

I wasn’t smart enough to keep quiet.

My mom never knew that he had it, and she doesn’t know that I now have it. It’s a fine firearm.

Her dementia keeps progressing.

“People shouldn’t be allowed to have guns,” said the young lady who was sitting next to me at the bar. She was talking to the TV.

She looked to be at least 40 years younger than me and was wearing an Ivy League hoodie.

She was likely waiting for some friends.

I was not.

She was smart enough to ignore me, but I wasn’t smart enough to keep quiet.

“Press the barrel to the brain, squeeze the trigger, end the pain,” I said. “That’s all that it would take, you know, for me to end my life.”

Now I had her attention.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“I was just thinking,” I said. “Maybe it’s only a matter of time till a simple pull becomes the final rhyme that I will ever make.”

“Whoa, stop that!” she exclaimed. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“Dying is never something to not be serious about.”

(Bad grammar, I confess.)

“But giving up is weak and selfish. You aren’t very strong, are you?” she asked.

I turned to face her.

“What does strength have to do with it?”

“It takes strength to survive.”

“And sometimes it takes strength to die.”

“You don’t really have a gun, do you?” she asked.

“It’s in the truck,” I said.

“You shouldn’t have it.”

“Should or should not isn’t for you to decide.”

She wasn’t happy with my response.

“Why do you have it?” she asked.

“I’m too old to fight off evil with a stick.”

“Oh, come on, what are the odds that you will come face to face with evil?”

“Okay, then I’ll just hide and hope for the best for the rest of my life.”

I felt bad after I said it. Sarcasm doesn’t fit me well, although I can be mighty good at it.

“Considering how old you are, how many years do you even have left?” she asked.

I didn’t know whether she was joking, but I no longer felt bad about what I said.

“Seriously, what do you need a gun for?” she asked.

I looked up at the TV behind the bar. The host of the show was interviewing a guest.

“Doesn’t a woman have the right to defend her family?” asked the host, “Doesn’t a woman have the right to help those who cannot defend themselves?”

“He has a point,” I said.

“No one has a right to be a vigilante, and killing is killing,” she said.

“And abusers have no right to abuse,” I replied.

Yes, killing is killing. We kill ants. We kill spiders. We kill rats. We kill many creatures, some for food, some not. We even kill life that is forming but not quite ready to be born.

“We aren’t talking about vigilantes,” said the host of the TV show. “We are talking about self-defense and protecting the innocent.”

“Can you please turn the volume down on that?” the girl asked the bartender.

The bartender did not hear her.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” I said. “I’m not a threat. We’re just talking here.”

“What’s upsetting me is your total lack of common sense and decency. No one has to have a gun, end of story,” she insisted.

“It’s not a matter of having to have a gun.”

“Finally, you agree with me.”

“Well, that’s not exactly true, or even close,” I said. “Your youthful exuberance and lust for virtuous expression seems to be denying reality. Of course, that’s just my less than humble opinion based upon 66 years of living.”

“Wow, you are old. A few more years and you’ll be completely senile,” she said.

She did not know about my mom’s dementia.

“Why hasn’t your schooling taught you to be careful and wise when choosing a side?” I asked.

I had never said that to anyone, though it had crossed my mind a few times.

My question triggered her.

“Hey, who are you to talk to me that way?” she said angrily. “Mass shootings happen because of people like you. I bet you would love to show off your gun and have an opportunity to use it.”

I regretted starting the conversation, but of course I continued.

“Young lady, if I ever had to use it, it would not be a happy day, though if fate, not bloodthirst or hate, brought me to a place and time where I could save the life of a helpless victim, then I’d unholster my father’s Colt without hesitation. I would not be a man if I did not step in to help.”

“Some people would disagree. Some people would say that’s just macho nonsense.”

“Some people are cowards.”

“Having a gun does not a man make,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll reword my words. I would not be a good human being if I did not step in to help someone who was being attacked.”

The debate on the TV continued.

“Evil that is unchecked will lead to the destruction of humanity. Madness that is rationalized or coddled clears a pathway to hell,” said the host.

She waved at the bartender. “Will you please change the channel?”

I reached for my wallet.

“I’m going to head home, now,” I said. “I just stopped in for a quick drink.”

“Hey, you started this conversation by telling me that you’re going to put a bullet in your brain, and now you’re just going to walk away,” she said.

“I didn’t make any promises,” I replied.

“Suicide is another reason why not to own a gun.”

“No, it’s not. There are plenty of ways to harm oneself. Some just take longer than others to get to the point.” “Your point is ridiculous,” she said. “There is no way that you can justify owning a tool of death, something that is only meant to kill. You cannot defend the indefensible.”

“Helping another person is not indefensible, though it might require more than you are comfortable with.”

“Are you a kind man?” she asked.

“I try to be.”

“Are you a peaceful man?”

“I try to be.”

“Then why this obsession with and defense of something that can end a life with just a finger pull of a trigger? It’s wrong.”

“Doing the right thing is not wrong, and it requires necessary means, whether you want to believe that or not.”

“Who will you be able to protect if you kill yourself?” she asked. “Who will protect the innocent then?”

That was a good question.

“Hopefully someone else, but likely not you,” I said.

“Is that your plan?”

“No.”

“Then why mention it?”

“Plans sometimes change.”

“What gives you the right? I do not understand,” she said.

“I agree. You don’t understand, so maybe it’s best that you stop pretending that you do.”

I left a tip on the bar.

“Don’t shoot anyone on your way home,” she said.

I didn’t know if she was serious.

As I was walking out of the bar, I held the door for two women in their forties who were walking in.

“Hello,” I greeted them. “Please pay no attention to me. I consumed enough sugar as a child to mess up my brain.”

I’m not good at opening lines.

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© 2023 Randall Snyder