Practical Uses

 This is an excerpt from the book, “I Have No Business Being Here” - available now. Read the whole collection here.

In April 2019, after seeing pervasive and constant billboard advertisements since my youth, I decided to go to the gun show in my hometown. I should preface this by saying I do not own a gun. Despite the fact that I am from texas, I did not grow up around guns. I have shot exactly two guns in my life. The first was a Sig Sauer 1911 handgun, chosen for me by the man at the gun range on "Ladies Night" when I asked him to "give me whatever kind of gun FBI agents use." The second was my dad's .44 Magnum revolver that I shot at an outdoor gun range. Growing up, I had never actually seen that gun in real life. It lived like a myth within a faded yellow shoebox at the top of Mom and Daddy's walk in closet. My sister and I were told only two facts pertaining to its existence: (1) there was a gun, and (2) I should never, ever touch it under any circumstances.

I finally got to see Daddy's gun when some friends from college flew in with me from Chicago and decided they needed the "full Texas experience." This meant, along with good brisket and a trip to the State Fair, going to a gun range. Daddy agreed to go with us to the range, and I had the privilege of cradling the legend in my hands. Out of the shoebox, it was bigger than I imagined, and heavier, too.

When we stood before the targets, he let me take the first shot. I held it in my hand, felt the weight. I held it up and barely got one shot off. After I pulled the trigger, I was knocked back like I'd been pushed down on a playground. When Daddy took his turn, I was disappointed that the recoil nearly knocked him down as well. The target he was aiming for, a bale of hay in the distance, was barely grazed near the bottom.

"Daddy, what are you going to do if an intruder breaks in? Go for the knees?"

"The sound'll drive him off," he said, looking down, admiring his weapon and squinting like Clint Eastwood. My college friends stuck to the small .22 rifles and handguns provided by the range, looking wearily at the hand cannon my dad was now unloading.

So as a non-gun person headed toward the gun show, I didn't know what to expect. The show itself is held in the former site of Big Town Mall. Big Town was an anchor property for our small town growing up, and the first indoor mall in the southwest, complete with air conditioning.

In the 1990s, Big Town was where you got all your Christmas gifts and where you saw Santa. One December morning, my mom packed up my sister and me into our family minivan. We pulled up outside of the mall just in time to see two enormous horses kicking their feet against the pavement, hot bursts of steam shooting from their nostrils. They drug a stage coach behind them and came to a stop in front of the glass double doors leading to the mall. Perched atop the coach, holding the reins was Cowboy Santa, hoisted aloft and waving his Stetson at the gathered crowd.

Now, Big Town Mall is no longer a mall. It is technically a "convention center" but is probably more accurately described as a permanent gun show venue. Every other month, dealers come through and sell their goods. Items range in danger-level from glittery jeans with embroidered sparkle hearts on the rear to a gun so large it could "easily take out a full grown moose" - a full grown moose can grow up to six-feet five-inches tall and weigh nearly twelve-hundred pounds.

I turned into the gravel parking lot to find a spot. I followed the signs, small white squares with GUN SHOW emblazoned in red font above a red arrow. Each sign was placed two feet apart on the parkway, set down in patches of dead brown grass. The sheer number of signs made me wonder how many people got lost in this parking lot. It could be easy to get confused, I suppose, not knowing to walk toward the even larger red flag with GUN SHOW also printed on it. The letters on that sign measured about two-feet tall and, just to ensure the patrons knew for sure they had arrived in the proper place, the "O" in "Show" was a bullet hole.

Before I could park, I saw a repurposed school bus painted a deep teal with a sign beside it reading "DONATE BLOOD FOR FREE ADMISSION." I soon learned this noble effort was organized by the Freemasons. One oft-repeated call to action after a mass shooting is an increase in blood donations, so in this way, I guess they were trying to get ahead of the problem.

I parked and headed past the bus to make my way inside. A few feet beyond the bus, I was greeted by two Freemasons standing before the entrance to the show. One was lean and leatherfaced wearing a blue vest, embroidered with the gold Freemason logo.

"I have an offer for you, my lady," he started. "If you donate blood today, I'll buy your ticket to get in."

"Oh I can't," I said, trying to brush past him.

"What? It's not hard to donate blood! I show you how," he protested, gesturing toward the bus, sitting with its engine running only a few steps away.

"No, for medical reasons, I can't," I lied. I guess it wasn't a total lie. I genuinely believe it is medically safer not to let a stranger puncture me. With a needle. In a gun show parking lot. He nodded and smiled. Then he tipped his hat and turned from me, unphased, to greet the family walking in behind me.

Just inside the glass doors, two Mesquite police officers were standing behind a table attempting to unload a man's shot gun. The man was skinny, in thick dark denim jeans. He pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair. He shook his head side to side and whipped the cap back on.

"You gotta use the pliers," the man grunted when the officer struggled with a faulty piece of the gun. All guns brought to the gun show must be unloaded at the door, even those, I suppose, that must be unloaded with hand tools.

I paid my $9 in cash and accepted the stamp on my hand for entry, making note of the "NO PHOTOGRAPHS OR VIDEOS" sign on yellow paper behind the woman who stamped me.

In first aisle there was a man standing hunched over a spinning wheel, surrounded by sharp knives and their leather cases. He wore a shirt with large block letters that read, I SHARPEN YOUR KNIVES WHILE YOU WAIT! It seemed like less of an offer and more of a command. I think it was the exclamation mark. Did I have to wait beside the table or could I, instead, pass the time at the build-your-own-AR-15 table?

Across from him was a long table, manned by a tight-jawed, bronzed woman in her thirties, wearing a pink tank top. She finished off the look with a black barrel stuffed down the front of her tight jeans. Given the tightness of her outfit, that was really the only place she could have stored her gun. The back of her jeans was weighed down by gemstones, sparkly stitching, and a sewn-on overlay of a cross. She had an asymmetrical short haircut and pursed lips that dared people to talk to her. In front of her were hand guns of all sizes and colors. Other tables were offering the standard black, silver and gray, but hers were turquoise, purple, and baby pink.

Perched at the end of the table with their barrels jutting out into the aisle were AR-15s in black and dark gray only. At the time, I had never seen one in real life before. I was too intimidated to ask her about them. In fact, I was most afraid that I would bump one of the barrels with my hip, leading to a PeeWee's Big Adventure-style chain reaction of guns toppling from their displays into a pile on the floor.

Along the wall of the next booth were an array of t-shirts printed with pop culture gun references. I saw one with a small caricature of Samuel L. Jackson in his iconic Pulp Fiction suit, holding his gun in front of him with the words, "Say What Again!" printed beneath.

I was curious about the many, many Tombstone shirts I saw. Tombstone is a movie with Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer released in the early 1990s. From the short clip I watched on YouTube, I estimate it cost $34 dollars to make, not including the money they paid Billy Zane to be the exact same character he would later play in Titanic. Nevertheless, it seemed to be quite popular. Several of the shirts included the phrase, "I'm Your Huckleberry".

Ignorant to the common Tombstone parlance, I assumed this phrase was some sort of reference to Mark Twain. A quick Google search taught me that this is a phrase taken from 17th century England and continued in the American Southwest meaning, I am the man for the job or, as one website described, I am the executioner for the task. I cringed and kept walking.

Down the next aisle, a chubby faced boy sat behind an entire table full of AR-15s. I stopped and smiled.

"What are these?" I asked.

"ARs," he said, raising to stand and adjusting his black hoodie, printed with the logo of a high school near my house. He was just barely taller than me, with a mess of sandy brown hair. I looked at him for a moment and thought he was probably a good kid. It seemed like his parents trained him well, and owing to no nearby adults, they must have trusted him enough to effectuate sales of semi-automatic rifles.

"Oh very nice," I said, nodding, pretending to understand. "And these would take out like an elk or a moose?" I asked. I figured the best way to fit in was to pretend, probably very poorly in my thick framed glasses and pig tails, that I, too, was a hunter.

"It would take a few rounds of one of these," he said. He continued, gesturing to a table across the convention hall. "But they've got some bigger ones that could take out a moose if that's what you're looking to do. These," he pointed to the rifles lying before him, "These are good for deer, hogs, you know."

Or kindergarteners, or folks dancing in a club, I thought.

"Yep," I said out loud, remembering from my days of playing Big Buck Hunter in the back of bars that moose are substantially more difficult to shoot than deer or hogs. The gun he pointed to, the Moose-Killer I'll call it, was the largest weapon I have seen outside of a military museum. It was as long as a mannequin and laid propped on a triangular stand. I wondered how you would even transport something like that. I pictured its future owner's inevitable pickup truck, the gun mounted, nestled between two KC spotlights, living life just one silver-painted mouth away from Mad Max.

"And I could just, like, buy one of these? Right now?" I asked, looking down at the $500 price tag, handwritten on a neon orange piece of poster board.

"Yep," he said. I thanked the boy and moved on.

Two elderly men with gray beards and slow gaits passed one another in the aisle behind me. They both sported black ball caps with a "Vietnam Veteran" embroidered on the front, the bills each covered with service pins.

"What years were you in?" one asked the other.

"63 to 66," the other said, steadying himself on his walker. They shared a moment of silent respect and, with a nod, both continued on in their respective directions.

Just past them, I came to another t-shirt stand. This one had, what I would come to learn, is a very popular piece of art in the gun world. At first glance, I thought it was just a green Starbucks logo. The iconic siren holds court at the center of the logo, printed in her Starbucks green. But in this version, she brandishes two AR-15s, one in each hand. Above her like a halo, a Starbucks-style font reads "I LOVE MY GUNS AND COFFEE." It looked like something baristas would wear pinned to their green aprons on Take Your Gun to Work Day. I'm no trademark lawyer but if "likelihood of confusion" is a factor, I think Starbucks may have a case.

Nearby, there was a black t-shirt printed with a black and white photo of Curly from the "Three Stooges." Someone had photoshopped a red baseball hat on his head that demanded in white letters, that we "MAKE AMERICA NYUK AGAIN." I stood for a moment, trying to decipher the idea, but it was no use. I had no idea when America used to nyuk and failed to think of any ways I could contribute to make it nyuk once again.

A booth around the corner had fancy bronzed sculptures for sale. Each was about the size of a bowling ball, perfect in size and style to be featured on a mahogany desk. There were hunting dogs, turtles, a killer whale. Beside that were lions, elk, moose. I quickly realized these were not animals to be revered, but were, aside from the dogs (and, I hope, the turtles) small scale replicas of targets.

I stopped at another table selling pieces of AR-15s, including "uppers," after-market barrels you add to make the gun more powerful. I stared down at the machined piece of metal lying on the table, impotent. A pair of guys with smooth tan skin, one in a Pokémon hat, gripped it and said, "Wow! We are big AR-15 nuts!" The table was guarded by a mannequin decked out in full tactical gear, a rifle slung over its shoulder like you'd see a soldier wear in a war zone. I was struck with how tough it looked. I thought, When the shit goes down and people hit the deck, this mannequin would take care of business.

Then my reverence turned to sadness. I looked at the rifle and imagined bodies falling on the other end of the barrel. Big bodies, sure, but also small bodies. People ducking at a concert in Las Vegas. Kids ready for story time, hiding in a closet.

I brushed past a young man, no more than twenty, in a "US SPACE FORCE" t-shirt and noticed he had a tattoo on his thin arm. It was Bullet Bill, the angry-faced anthropomorphic bullet from the Super Mario Brothers video game. He had his head down, running his hands over a table of shotguns.

The young man working the shotgun table couldn't have been more than 21. He had an eyepatch on his right eye.

He probably shot his eye out, I thought and immediately felt ashamed. Who was I to assume he lost his eye in a gun accident? Sure, he was currently surrounded by guns. Standing behind the table at a gun show, it stands to reason he works in the gun industry. But it was unfair of me to assume that his eye was not lost in something like an ice-skating incident or by someone going overboard while blowing out birthday candles. It was just then that he yanked a shot gun from the table, pumped it high above his head and let out an "oooohweeee" that could have called a herd of animals home.

A few tables down, I saw a cardboard box piled high with army green hand-grenades. I asked the round old man behind the table if they were real. He adjusted his grip on the cane he was leaning on and got close.

"Course they're real," he said, into my face. "They just don't go boom no more."

"They look just like on the cartoons," I said. He furrowed his face and shook his head at me. I continued walking.

They do sell more than guns at the gun show. In turn, I saw a small woman sitting sheepishly behind a pink table cloth offering Avon items. There was a long folding table piled high with Scentsy products. Scentsy's are special lamps for the home that melt scented wax blocks. They're advertised as safer alternative to candles and were popular in this crowd. No one wanted to bring something as dangerous as a candle into their homes.

A larger booth near the center was covered with glass bottles standing in rows under a banner that read "Willie's Hot Sauce." A cluster of barrel-shaped people had gathered in front, clamoring for samples.

Near one wall, I saw a small girl sitting at a table. She was maybe 8 years old, with her face buried in her iPad. She had on sky blue headphones topped with kitten ears. Lined up in front of her were rows of friendship bracelets on display. They were neon yellow, pink, turquoise, and purple. It looked like she had hand braided each one. A small, handwritten sign advertised that each was $5. She shared table space with her father, a bearded man in a tight black t-shirt and ball cap. He was busy reorganizing the components of AR-15s on the table before him. The banner over his head advertised his website, something like BUILD-UR-OWN-AR.net.

In the distance, I saw a table stacked with small wooden boxes that appeared to be custom carved urns. On closer inspection, I was disappointed to find that they were not urns, but tiny antique post offices. Though I suppose anything is an urn if you are determined enough. The only thing that may stop someone from pouring the ashes of a loved one in these would be the little door on the front that opened with a latch.

Down the center aisle, I passed a man selling all manner of military memorabilia. He was a veteran of Korea according to his hat. A large flag lying on the table read "SEMPER FI" and was covered with various medals, small knives and antique hand guns, pea-shooters my Daddy called them.

Beside him, a decidedly different flag covered the table. I had to do a double take before I realized it was not simply a red table cloth. It was a Nazi flag. The entire table was covered with Nazi memorabilia – armbands, knives, pins. I couldn't reconcile the idea of standing beside a war veteran, sharing table space, even, and selling items like this. Each of the various swastika-emblazoned items had meticulously written labels attached with tiny pieces of thin string. I wondered how one decides what to price, say, a Nazi officer pin. Does it matter who wore it? Were they reproductions or authentics? Despite the long list of questions piling up in my head, my curiosity was outweighed by the risk of being seen browsing the Nazi table. I moved on.

About three tables down, a soft spoken southern grandma asked everyone who passed by, "Peanut brittle, baby?" She had a friendly open face with soft brown eyes. I asked if she sold almond brittle, too. She said of course, so I handed her $5. She gave me a small bag of almond brittle inside of an anonymous white plastic bag. I held the bag at chest level, signaling to the other patrons that we shop at the same store.

One booth promised to "STOP ALL PAIN AND ITCHING ASSOCIATED WITH ECZEMA!" I looked down at the red bumps and dots on my hands and contemplated stopping by, but the line was too long.

An old man at a table selling survivalist gear shoved a dripping chicken salad sandwich in his mouth. Large cubes of chicken and celery plopped onto the red checkered plate in his hand. My stomach grumbled. In the back, there was a concession stand selling Cheetos, Doritos, and M&Ms. Funnel cake and chocolate chip cookies, too.

Near the concessions, I passed a stand selling concealment apparatus - various accessories designed to help you hide guns on your person. The proprietor behind the table didn't notice me standing there as he bent at the waist, struggling to pull up his drooping pants as they succumbed to the weight of his weaponry.

A stand selling t-shirts and hats included a handwritten note scrawled on green neon poster board. The alternating red and black magic marker letters read, "This is all MADE IN AMERICA! This is not CHEAP made in CHINA crap!" Two hats made reference to our current president and another encouraged us to "KEEP AMERICA GREAT."

Near the ladies' room in the back, two men stood across from one another discussing knives. The seller demonstrated for the customer how the knife he was holding would go "In-out-in-out-in-out." He whipped the blade around, jutting it out in front of his body, aiming just where an imaginary assailant's guts would be.

For the ladies at the gun show, a table offered shirts that read DOG MOM, MAMA BEAR and DON'T STAND BETWEEN A GRANDMA AND HER GRANDKIDS!

Or what? I thought. What would Grandma do if I stood between her and her grandkids? Then I caught the eye of white-haired woman only a few feet away selling wooden baseball bats wrapped in barb wire and decided I didn't want to find out.

"Excuse me, we are begging for money for homeless veterans," an older man said from behind a table. He was round, with a long white beard and a dirty red t-shirt, like Santa on his day off. He sat perched on a one of those walkers that double as a chair.

"Sure," I said. "They need help the most." I began rifling through my purse for money. Of the $20 I had brought with me, at this point I had spent $9 on admission, $5 on a bag of almond brittle and $5 on a parody "I LOVE MY GUNS AND COFFEE" Starbucks sticker. That only left me with one dollar.

"I only have this," I said, holding up the bill.

"That's ok, young lady! If everyone just gave us one dollar, we'd be in good shape!" he said.

His friend, slung back in a lawn chair beside him, Carhart t-shirt pulled tight across his belly, piped up. "Not only do you look good, but you've got money, too! My kind of woman!" A better person may have been offended, but yes, I thought, I am both attractive and have money, thank you for noticing.

I walked the remaining aisles, proud of myself for not having touched a single gun since going in. But then, I saw the Blowback table. Blowback is a digital laser gun that shoots into a specialized board. I approached the salesman, a gentle faced older man in a cheap tweed suit.

"You'll notice it looks and feels just like a real gun," he said, handing the practice pistol to me. He was right. It felt real. A little lighter than Daddy's revolver, closer to the Glock. The practice gun was completely black with a tiny hole in front for the laser. It could easily have doubled for an on-screen prop gun or something you would use to rob a bank in a pinch. He gestured toward the red glass target board, no bigger than a dart board.

"This thing is unbelievable," the salesman told me, gesturing to the board. "You can practice at home, in your hotel, on the go, anywhere!"

I imagined him unfurling his laser board in a crowded airport or at a relative's high school graduation. "Just getting in some practice before the ceremony starts," he would say over his shoulder, taking aim at the board.

"Would you like to try?" he asked. I considered the gun in my hand. Well, I'm human, aren't I? Fuck yes, I wanted to try. I held up the gun, closed one eye and pointed it at that board just like every FBI agent in every movie I ever idolized. I took aim. I pulled the trigger on an exhale. I was doing everything right. Only my shots weren't hitting where I aimed.

"Must be something wrong with my eyes," I said, half joking.

"Oh no," he said. "You'll notice it shoots low. I adjusted it for my eyes. They're crooked."

I let that sink in as I stood there shooting away, enjoying the lifelike blowback of the weapon with none of the danger or the noise. I didn't stop to ask: if you practice with an errant laser, what effect does that have once you have an actual killing machine between your palms? I took a brochure and left.

When I left the gunshow, I wasn't sure where to go next. It was late on a Saturday afternoon in myhometown of Mesquite, Texas. I started my engine and rolled over the gravel,navigating between the large trucks and trailers. I turned on to the highwayand went to the only place I could think of, that church of steaks, camo, andcountry music: Texas Roadhouse. I had a legendary margarita, ate acooked-to-perfection steak, and watched clips of Tombstone on my phone, securein my knowledge that I'm nothing like those crazy, gun-toting southern whackjobs.

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