I Need a Gun – “Ketchup Sandwich Chronicles” – Hunger is not a Disease
“How much is an application for a gun permit?” I was the only cotton topped little old lady in the line at the Golden Hill government office in Kingston.
The counter person, an overweight man in his fifties, could hardly contain his laughter as he handed me the gun permit application. “That’ll be $5.00 please, miss.”
After handing him the money, I started to walk away. Then, turning back to him, I said pleasantly, “Will you sell me three more applications, please? A couple of the girls in my senior yoga class asked me to get applications for them, too.”
Pulling out $15.00 more, I put the money on the counter. The man gave me three more gun applications and I walked away. I had no idea who was going to receive them and I didn’t attend any senior yoga class but I remembered the old “Alice’s Restaurant” song about three people doing something and being part of a movement.
Things in the pantry were negative and confrontational since the first day I drove up with fresh produce for the hungry people shopping in the pantry. In the beginning, I tried to hide things and overlook the situation. Frankly, I hoped the negativity would just go away. And, of course, I was mistaken. Situations like that don’t just evaporate. People don’t just change. And now, I was beginning to tire of the whole situation. I’d been living with fear for years and was feeling like it was time to try to fix things.
Maybe a gun will help, I thought.
When I got home, Barry was sitting on the sofa, surrounded by his cats, Fizzle and Carrots, as he read his latest thriller.
“Hi, honey. How’s your day going?” Without looking up, he took a few grapes from a large fruit filled bowl on a table by the sofa.
“Here’s the application for the gun permit I just got. I want you to teach me to shoot a gun.”
“What!?”
“You can do it. You didn’t spend all those years sneaking off to the CIA without knowing how to use a gun. They even gave you a medal or something. For all I know, you’re a damn bazooka expert. Maybe I want to learn that, too!”
“You can’t do that! You might shoot one of the Chihuahuas.”
“Well, I’m tired of asking pantry volunteers to be bodyguards. It’s not safe when I’m working after hours at the pantry. And, I’m not one bit afraid of the shoppers.”
“Listen, I know your job is difficult. Not even a Marine drill sergeant would do what you’re doing. But, I don’t know about a gun.”
“That Mag-Lite I bought a while back just isn’t what I need. A gun is more powerful and I’ve lived with them my whole life. My grandmother kept a rifle in her bathroom.”
“T.G. you’re just not the gun type. I’ll teach you to use a knife. A good knife won’t cost as much as a gun and you won’t need a permit. You won’t need to buy bullets. There’s nothing to clean unless you stab someone. It’ll be easier to use and carry. I’ll give you some lessons. Nobody will ever know. It’ll be our secret. Leash up the Chihuahuas. We’re going to Warren Cutlery in Rhineback.”
And so he did. He took me to Warren Cutlery where there was a generous selection of knives. We went into the knife room which included stock for kitchens as well as other knives not designed to slice and chop onions. I stood in front of the case. “Which knife are you interested in?” The clerk spoke to me as though showing weapons to a cotton topped old lady was the most boring thing he did all day. And, maybe it was.
“I’d like to see the one over there with the four-inch blade, please.” I held it in my hand and then asked to see several more on display in the case. Barry walked over to the case, stood beside me, and saw the knife I held in my hand.
“That knife is too big and too heavy.” he said, pointing to a smaller model. “You need something you can carry in your purse and you need something you can open rapidly. If you’re too slow, your attacker will have you down before you get it open.”
So, I chose a smaller, lighter model that happened to be on sale.
Barry paid the bill, and off we went.
He did just what he said he would. He taught me how to open a knife quickly but never bothered teaching me to close it.
And, he was correct. A knife is quiet. It weighs less than a gun. There’s no need for a permit. The Chihuahuas won’t get shot. And, unless I go through a metal detector before I take it out of my purse, no one has a clue.
Before it was over, he bought me a second knife which I kept open on the pantry counter next to the large Mag-Lite, ostensibly to open the cardboard boxes.
Thurman Greco
Woodstock, New York
Thank you for reading this story. It is, for now, the first chapter in “The Ketchup Sandwich Chronicles.”
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I Need a Gun in the Food Pantry
“There is nothing that can’t be solved by the use of high explosives.” – Joshua Garner
“I’d like to get an application for a gun permit, please.” I said, the only little old gray haired lady in the room. I was finally first in line at the government office at Golden Hill in Kingston.
The counter person, an overweight man in his 50’s, could hardly contain his laughter as he handed me the form. “That’ll be $5 please, miss.”
I handed him the money and started to walk away. Then, I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I turned around to him and said pleasantly “Will you sell me 3 more applications, please? I forgot the girls in my Senior Yoga class asked me to get applications for them, too.”
I pulled out $15 more and put the money on the counter. The man gave me three more applications and then I walked away. I had no idea who I was going to give the applications to but I remembered the old “Alices Restaurant” song about three people or more people doing something and being a movement.
When I got home in Woodstock, Barry was sitting on the sofa surrounded by his cats as he read the latest thriller. “Hi Thurman. How’re you doing?” he asked without looking up as he took a few grapes from a large fruit filled bowl on a table beside the sofa. .
“I WANT TO LEARN TO SHOOT A GUN. I want a gun.” I replied. “I got the application today and I want you to teach me to shoot a gun.”
“What!?”
“I want you to teach me to shoot a gun. I know you can. You didn’t spend all those years sneaking off to the CIA and NSA without knowing how to use a gun. They even gave you a medal or award or something at the CIA once. For all I know, you’re a damn bazooka expert. Maybe I want to learn that too.”
“YOU CAN’T DO THAT! You might accidentally shoot one of the Chihuahuas.”
“Well, I’m tired of asking pantry volunteers to be bodyguards. It’s not safe when I’m working in the pantry after hours. I haven’t felt safe since that incident with Mike and Mike and the air conditioner. And, I’m not one bit afraid of the shoppers.”
“Listen, I know your job is difficuIt Thurman. Not even a Marine drill sergeant would do what you’re doing. But I don’t know about a gun.”
“I know, I know. I should be more comfortable with everything that’s happening. After all, I did live fifty miles from headhunters in Venezuela but that was all a long time ago. This is the 21st century. That Maglite I bought a while back just isn’t the same as a club. I need something more powerful.
“I’ve lived with guns my whole life.” I continued. “My father wore a pistol every day to work in his law office. Everyone in my family carried guns and had rifles in their cars. My grandmother kept a rifle in her bathroom.”
” TG-YOU’RE JUST NOT THE GUN TYPE. I don’t care what you say about your relatives carrying arms. Besides that, I sold my last gun years ago. What about a knife? Let me teach you to use a knife. A good knife will cost much less and you won’t need a permit. You won’t need bullets. It won’t require maintenance. It’ll be easier to carry and use. I’ll give you lessons. Nobody will ever know. Leash up the Chihuahuas. We’re going to Warren Cutlery right now.”
And, so he did. He took me to Warren Cutlery. I held several different knives to see how they fit in my palm. My first choice didn’t pass muster. “That knife is too big and too heavy” Barry said as he pointed to a smaller model. “You need something small enough that you can open quickly. If you’re too slow, your attacker will have you down before you get it open.”
So, I chose a smaller, lighter model that happened to be on sale.
And, off we went. He taught me to use and carry a knife. He taught me how to open it quickly but never bothered with teaching me to close it fast. “That part’s not important” he said as he helped me practice.
And, he was right. A knife is quiet. It weighs less than a gun. I don’t need a permit. I don’t have to worry about shooting one of the Chihuahuas by accident. And, unless I go through a metal detector before I take it out of my purse, no one has a clue. I’m just a sweet little old gray haired lady in a Prius tootling down the road 5 miles below the speed limit.
Before it was all over, he bought me a second knife…a smaller one which I kept open on the counter in the pantry ostensibly to open cardboard boxes.
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Peace and food for all.
Thurman
