Her Glock

She thought it was ugly. But she liked it and it was what she wanted. The thing felt comfortable in her hands, yet cold and hard, and it was as black as a raisin. She knew it would have cost her over $600 if she had bought it at a local store; instead, she had bravely bought it for less than half that much on a street corner near a city-owned housing project. It weighed less than two pounds and had a four-inch barrel, small enough to be concealed in her handbag.

Jayla Murphy had wanted the Glock 19 semiautomatic pistol after she saw a photo of it on a website for gun owners. She had been robbed and assaulted in a parking lot six months ago, and she swore to herself that it would not happen again. The beating had left her with a bruised face, a broken nose, a fractured jaw, cracked ribs, and a lost tooth, and she spent eleven days in a trauma unit at the hospital. For six weeks she was unable to eat and had to drink fluids through a tube. After a month of physical therapy, she was able to walk without difficulty again. If she had a gun the night she was attacked, she believed, it would have never happened.

Darnell Carson, her boyfriend, was sympathetic but seemed to think it was funny that she wanted a handgun. He insisted that she did not really need one. Instead, he said, she needed to be careful where she parked her car when she went shopping at night. That was the reason she was accosted, he told her.

“Do you know what a Glock is?” he asked her.

“Yes, it’s a 9mm handgun,” she said, brushing back her long black braids entwined with white beads.

“It’s so powerful that it’s used by the police and military.”

“I know. I’ve read about it. And it’s what I want.”

“If you’re careless, you could shoot yourself,” he told her. “I have an uncle who thought the chamber was empty when he was cleaning his handgun. He shot himself in his leg. He almost died from the bleeding. He didn’t know what he was doin’.”

“I’m going to take lessons on how to use it. And I’ll practice by shooting targets at a firing range. I’ll be all right. I know I will.”

She thought she noticed a grin behind his short black beard. But she was not going to be discouraged. She had already made up her mind that she was going to buy it whether he approved of it or not. And it was obvious he didn’t.

“A 25-year-old Black woman with a Glock. Are you serious?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Really?” She wondered if he was trying to be humorous.

“Everybody’ll think you’re afraid to use it,” he said. “That’s what I think.”

“I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks. I’m going to buy one.”

“And then you’re intending to kill someone with it?”

“Yes, if I have to.”

“Well, I just hope I’m not around. When you start shooting that gun, bullets will be flying everywhere! I don’t want to get hit by one.”

“You won’t. It’ll only be the people who are trying to hurt me.”

“You are serious, aren’t you?”

“You’re damn right.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t try to warn you about it.”

It was not difficult to find the handgun she wanted. First, she had to talk to someone who was dealing drugs. She bought a small bag of marijuana and asked him if he knew anyone who was selling handguns. He looked at her suspiciously. She certainly did not look like a policewoman. He felt that he would have known it if she was. She did not seem to have the assurance of someone working undercover. She did not even look like someone who would be buying dope. He seemed kind of amused. He asked her, what kind of handgun did she want? A Glock 19, she replied without hesitation. He told her to come back there the next day.

And the next day, the kid who had sold her the marijuana had a friend with him. They all sat in a car parked along the street. The friend pulled back the front of his coat. Jayla could see a handgun inside a shoulder holster. She moved her hand toward him as if she wanted to touch it. He quickly backed away. Slow down, he told her. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching them. He pulled back his coat again, and this time he took the gun out of its holster and handed it to her. Three hundred dollars, he said. Two hundred and fifty, she told him. He took her money, she got out of his car, and he drove away as if nothing had just happened.

Jayla did what she had told Darnell that she would do. She enrolled in a three-week course. She learned how to handle the gun. She was trained how to load, unload, and reload ammunition. She was taught how to disassemble, clean, lubricate, and reassemble her gun. The instructor took her and the other students to an outdoor practice range. She was shown how to grip the firearm, how to stand, and how to aim. In the end, she received a permit to carry it.

“I can’t believe you did it,” Darnell said to her.

“I was their best student.”

“Now what are you going to do?”

“I’ll take my gun with me wherever I go. I’ll be ready for anything that happens.”

She noticed that Darnell was not grinning this time. He knew she was serious.

“Be careful, Jayla. Be very careful.”

She promised him that she would.

Jayla never left home without her Glock. She took it to the supermarket, to the park, to church, to her job. It was always in her handbag. She was ready for the next time someone tried to rob and assault her.

It seemed she would not need it. For months, the only time she would shoot it was when she went to the practice range and aimed it at targets. She became an excellent markswoman there. In a tournament, she won a second-place trophy which she displayed in the middle of her coffee table. She was determined to win a first-place trophy the next time. Jayla was very proud of her new skill.

All this reminded her of when she was in middle school. She had never attempted to paint anything before then. But in sixth period art class, her teacher encouraged his students to try to paint with watercolors. With practice, she became very good at it and soon she was painting everything around her. When a contest was held at the end of the school year, she won a gold ribbon. She was very proud of it and still had the ribbon over the bookcase in her bedroom.

Carrying her Glock was as ordinary to her as carrying her car keys with her. She never forgot it. She was not becoming complacent, but she was no longer as obsessed about someone robbing and assaulting her as she had been before. She still parked her car in lighted areas when she was out at night and watched the people who were around her. If she felt uncomfortable, she always put her hand on her handbag and felt her Glock in it. She knew it was there if she wanted it.

The last place she would have imagined needing it was at her own apartment. She was confident that she was safe there. So it came as a surprise when she returned home one evening and saw some young men at the front door of her apartment. It appeared they were trying to break in.

“What are you doing at my door?” she asked loudly, hoping to scare them away.

They turned around and looked at her. There were three of them.

“I said, what’re you doing?”

“We’re just look’n around,” one of them finally said.

“Hey what’s it to you?” said another one.

“That’s my apartment!” she told them.

The third one did not say anything but reached into his back pocket.

She put her hand on her handbag. Her Glock was there, of course. She could feel it.

When the one who had reached into his back pocket stepped toward her, she unzipped her handbag and put her hand inside.

“What ar’ you doing?” he asked her.

“I’ve got a gun,” she said.

“You ain’t got nothin’ in there,” he said.

“It’s a Glock.”

The three men laughed. She wondered, why were they not taking her seriously?

“You got a gun, show it to us!” the first one who had spoken to her said.

She hesitated.

The three of them came closer to her.

Quickly she pulled it out and pointed it at them.

“Okay, okay,” the second one said.

They began to back away.

She still pointed it at them. They were all standing in front of her door.

“Put the gun down now!” called someone behind her.

She still pointed it at them. They did not move. They seemed to be looking at whoever was behind her.

“Now!”

Was it a joke? Why was someone telling her to put down her gun? She could not believe it.

She turned her head to try to look at him. When she did, one of the men ran away.

She still aimed her Glock at the two that were left.

Then she made a mistake. She turned around with the gun still in her raised hand. She was pointing it at the other person now. His pale face was illuminated by a nearby light.

When she recognized he was a policeman, it was too late. He had already fired his revolver.

She heard its sound before she felt the pain in her chest. The other two men ran away. Jayla slumped to the ground. She was only ten feet from the door of her apartment. Her Glock slipped from her hand and she fell on top of it.

The policeman’s report referred to the men as three Caucasian males, ages 17 to 19. He was looking for them after a robbery when he saw Jayla pointing her gun at them. His report listed it as a Glock 9mm stolen handgun. Jayla Murphy had bought it to protect herself.