THE PROTECTOR

THE PROTECTOR

by Diane L. Goodman

I am small but powerful.

I am just 5.8 inches long and 1 inch wide. I weigh just 17 ounces. But inserting a 10-round magazine boosts my weight to a hefty 24 ounces.

I’m handsome, too. Sleek silver stainless steel slide. Shiny black barrel. Stippled grip. Day/night sights.

I am a Sig Sauer P365 semi-automatic pistol.

I lie on a glass shelf in a large glass case. I am the middle one in a row of seven, a Sig P226 on my left and a Browning 1911-22 A1 on my right. There is a card in front of each of us, stating our name and price.

The other Siggy is all black. I’m unique in that I am two-tone.

I know that it’s not looks that matter. It’s heart. Heart and courage. And power. I have all that. But I can’t help being proud of my physique.

Every few days, before the store opens in the morning, the store owner (whose name is Larry) takes all of us out of the glass case and dusts off the shelves. Then he lovingly polishes us with a soft cloth, holding us with the cloth as he replaces us on our shelf, so as not to smudge us with fingerprints. I think I am his favorite, because he holds me longer, and sometimes aims me at the door or the wall. No shooting, though. The bullets are kept separate.

We do good business. Lately it’s the big guns that have the briskest sales: the semi-automatic rifles like the AK-47 and the AR-15. There is a gorgeous AR-15 hanging on the display wall. The body is black etched with gold birds of prey, and the barrel and grip are gold plated. I think it was custom-made. I don’t know how much it costs, but I retail for $699.99 plus tax, and the AR-15 has got to cost way, way more than me. I’ve seen Larry take it down for a customer to examine; but the customer will eventually shake his head and walk away. Then Larry climbs his ladder and puts the beautiful AR-15 back in its place high on the wall.

Hunting rifles are popular, too. The guys that come in for those know exactly what they want. They ask, or point, and Larry takes the rifle down and hands it to them. They heft it, put it on their shoulder, point it, then put it back on the counter and nod to Larry. They add a few boxes of the appropriate bullets, and they’re gone. I imagine them hopping into their pickup truck outside, gunning the engine, and zipping off to shoot a deer.

Don’t get me wrong, we sell a lot of handguns, too. For some reason, P226 and I are the only Siggys in the store. People seem to prefer the Colts, Smith & Wessons, Brownings, and Rugers. Maybe these are just the ones that they have heard of.

The people that come in for handguns are a different breed than the hunters. They usually don’t know what they want, and often ask Larry to recommend something. I have to hand it to Larry; he’s a true professional. He doesn’t just try to sell them the most expensive one; he questions them about what experience they have had with a gun, and what they want to use it for. Most of them reply, “protection,” or “to protect my family.” One guy was a truck driver, and he wanted some security for those long nights on the road. Another explained that there had been some burglaries in his neighborhood, and he wanted to be prepared.

Not too many women come in, but there are some. The other day a young woman, dressed in jeans and a flowing pink shirt, with a long blonde ponytail, leaned over the glass case and fixed me intently with her navy-blue eyes. Larry walks over to her and begins his usual routine. “So how can I help you, young lady?”

“I need a gun,” she replies, still staring at me. “Is this a good one?”

“It’s one of the best small pistols on the market,” Larry praises me. “Do you want to take a look at it?”

She nods, and Larry unlocks the back of the case and hands me to her. “I do think this would be a good one for you. It’s not too big, not too heavy, and not complicated to operate. And a full 10-round magazine.”

Her hands are small, but I fit nicely into them. She turns me over, examining me front, back, and sideways. She curls her index finger around the trigger. The corners of her lips quirk up, ever so slightly, for a brief moment; then she is somber again.

“Have you used a gun before?” Larry asks.

She shakes her head. “I’ll learn.”

“Well, the local gun club offers lessons. I would suggest you consider that. You want to really know your weapon and how to handle it.”

He starts to reach for a card from the little box on top of the case, but the woman suddenly inhales sharply and lays me back on the counter. “That’s okay,” she says quickly. “I – I have to think about it some more.” And she turns and walks out of the store, the bells jingling after her.

Larry sighs, puts me back on my shelf, and locks the case again. I was disappointed. I would have liked for her to own me. Even though she claimed not to know how to use a gun, she held me as if we already knew each other.

Interestingly, another woman came in that very same day. She was older, wearing a beige suit, black high heels, and toting a large black leather handbag. Her eyes skimmed over me and rested on a purple Ruger LCP 380. It’s an excellent gun, but I’m sure that she was attracted by the color. She bought it, popped it into her handbag, and scurried out the door, high heels clicking.

It was almost closing time when a young man comes in. He’s skinny, wearing black jeans, a black hoodie, and a red baseball cap. Scraggly black hair sticks out of the back of the cap. He stretches out his arms and places his bony hands on the glass counter, his dark eyes skittering back and forth as he scans the merchandise. His eyes stop on me. He leans in closer and gives a slight nod.

Larry approaches him, but before he can say anything, the young man points to me. “That one.”

Larry takes me out of the case and hands me to him. The young man holds me for a brief moment before putting me on the counter. “I’ll take it.”

Larry gives him the two forms – federal and state – and we wait while the young man fills them out. I was elated. True, I would rather have gone home with the young woman with the navy-blue eyes, but no matter. I was finally going to be owned, going to be used. I was finally going to have a life.

“That’s good, Mr. – O’Brien,” Larry says, collecting the papers. “I just need your ID now.”

The young man fishes in his pocket, pulls out a beaten-up leather wallet, and extracts a driver’s license. I saw that it read “Edward O’Brien,” with his photo. He’s 24 years old. Larry takes the papers, the ID, and me down to the computer at the end of the counter, where he searches for the prospective buyer in the NICS database.

He comes up clean.

Larry gives him his license back and takes out a box from behind the counter and packs me into it. “It comes with two magazines, 10 rounds each. Hey, I’ll throw in the bullets for free. My gift to a new customer.”

O’Brien does not smile or say thank you. He just mutters, “What do I owe you?”

“That’ll be $748.99,” Larry tells him.

O’Brien rummages in his wallet, pulls out eight one hundred dollar bills, and hands them to Larry.

I’d never seen anyone pay with cash before.

Larry rings him up and gives him his change and receipt. Then he puts the cover on the box with me inside. “You made a good selection,” I hear him say. “This little baby will serve you well.”

“That’s all I need,” O’Brien replies.

##########

We’re walking upstairs. A woman’s voice calls out, “Evan, is that you?”

Evan? I thought his name was Edward. Maybe it’s a nickname. Oh, well.

He doesn’t answer. A door slams. I am airborne, making a soft landing.

He takes the cover off my box, and I see him. He looks younger without his cap: soft cheeks, rounded chin, just a hint of stubble on his upper lip.

He picks me up. He doesn’t caress me as the blue-eyed young woman did, or hold me firmly and confidently as Larry did. (Larry! I guess I’ll never see him again. I’ll kind of miss him.) Evan’s hands are moist, and he slides his hands around me until he finally gets a good grip. He holds me in his right hand and cocks me ninety degrees to the left, the “gangster grip.”

I want to tell him that he’ll never hit anything with that stance; but he scowls and circles me around the room. Now I notice that the walls are painted black. There are several canvases hung on the wall, paintings with large brush strokes in red, purple, yellow, and black. Nothing is recognizable except one picture resembles a bleeding eye – wide and blue, with red trickling down the edge. I assume that these are Evan’s work.

Incongruously, there is also a large American flag tacked to one wall. A medal of some sort ispinned to it.

“Evan?” The woman’s voice again, and a knock on the door. “Dinner’s ready, if you want it.”

Evan narrows his eyes and points me at the door. I tense. I am a “protection” weapon. Does he need protection from this woman? But she’s offering him dinner. That doesn’t seem threatening.

And I’m not loaded.

He holds the pose for a moment, then lowers me. He puts me back in the box, covers it, and puts it under the bed. I hear the door open and close. Click. He’s locked it.

I must have dozed off for a while, because I’m suddenly aware of light again. This time it’s a lamp on a desk, as I can see that it’s dark outside the window. I’m lying on the bed again.

Evan is seated at the desk, writing in a notebook. Three other notebooks are piled next to him. Even though there is no one else in the room (except me, of course), he is slouched over his writing as if to prevent it from being seen. He writes quickly, feverishly, pressing his pencil hard into the paper.

Eventually he gets up from the desk and walks over to the bed. He picks up the box of bullets and shakes them out onto the bed. Then he takes one of the magazines and begins loading the bullets into it. He’s quick and able. I’m surprised. I didn’t think he had much experience with guns, but he obviously knows what he’s doing.

He picks me up and slides the magazine into place. He walks over to the closet, which has a full-length mirror on the door. He aims me at his reflection, using a two-handed, police-style grip. I wince. He’s going to make a hell of a mess if he shoots a mirror.

Then he drops one hand and puts my barrel against his right temple. He stares at himself in the mirror. He smiles sardonically.

He picks up a cell phone from the desk and takes a photo of himself holding me to his head.

I’m nervous and confused. I’m for “protection” – remember?

To my relief, he lowers me and puts me back down on the bed. He loads the other magazine, then puts us all back in the box and under the bed.

##########

I’m aware of being pulled out from under the bed and put down. The box is opened, and Evan is glaring at me. He is dressed in the black pants and black hoodie from yesterday. Daylight streams through the window.

He extracts a canvas duffel bag from the closet, shoves me into his front pocket and the extra magazine into his back pocket, unlocks the door, and heads downstairs.

The house is quiet. I peer out from his pocket. We are going down a hallway. I see lots of photographs on the walls. Mother, father, two sons: babies, then little boys, then teenagers. Then a large portrait of a young man in military uniform. With a black border.

Edward. The young man on the driver’s license.

I suddenly understand the significance of the flag in Evan’s room.

Evan goes into a room – an office, it seems, with a large desk, bookcases, and a tall steel cabinet. He takes out a key and opens the cabinet.

It is filled with guns.

Big guns. Like the ones on the wall in Larry’s store.

Evan takes out two: A 223-caliber Bushmaster XM15-E2S rifle, and a 22-caliber Savage Mark II rifle. He stows them in the duffel bag and zips it closed. Then he shuts and locks the cabinet.

I’m in a state of wonder. These are ASSAULT weapons. The military uses them to eliminate bad people – terrorists and assassins and warmongers. Evan must be part of a team assigned to take out some of these people. And I, a mere “protection” gun, have been chosen to be part of the team.

I feel honored. Proud. Excited.

We go into the garage. Evan tosses the duffel bag into the trunk of a blue Ford Focus, slams it shut, gets into the car, and puts me on the seat next to him. Off we go!

Evan drives slowly and carefully. I’m antsy, wanting to get to our destination – and my destiny – as soon as we can. We are probably going to meet up with the rest of the team. Maybe it’s a foreign mission. Maybe we have to sneak into another country.

Finally Evan stops the car. He puts me into his pocket and gets out. He opens the trunk, pulls out the duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and begins to walk slowly and purposefully toward a large two-story red brick building.

As we get closer, I see lettering on the front of the building.

GOLDEN RIVER ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

No. Oh, no.

Evan reaches a side door and pushes it open.