GUNS AND ROSEWATER

GUNS AND ROSEWATER

The officer stationed behind the desk at the court house annex noticed when the car came slowly past the plate glass window of the lobby and past the only two empty parking spaces, drove fruitlessly to the end of the lot, which had no outlet, performed a 12 point turnaround, and headed back toward the front of the building. The car pulled into one of the two spaces, which happened to be the only handicapped space available.

The car was large and sturdy, not new but well kept. No radical bumper stickers that set off alarm bells. The lady that got out of the driver’s side was much like the car. Large, tasteful, well-kept but not overblown, no tattoos or radically worded t-shirts that set off alarm bells.

The driver had put the handicap placard on the rear view mirror before getting out, then went around the car to assist her passenger. As soon as she opened the passenger door, she started to talk, mouth moving constantly while she proceeded to open the back passenger door and remove a folding aluminum walker, placing it firmly on the ground near the passenger. There slowly emerged a little sloth of a lady. Straight legs sliding around to be inside the walker, straight arms reached out to take hold of the top bars. There the straightness ended.

When the passenger was fully emerged and standing with the aid of the walker, she was still bent almost in half. Her spin was curved severely forward so she could only look sideways or bend her head upwards a bit to see. Her fingers were gnarled where she held on, but her grip seemed tight. She moved the walker a firm three inches forward, then followed with a solid little step on each foot. And so they proceeded across the small parking lot, the driver’s mouth in constant animation, the sloth lady moving slowly but with purpose in sight.

Bump, step, step.

“Yada, yada, yada...”

Bump, step, step.

“Yada, yada, yada, yada...”

As they approached the front of the building, the officer left the desk and hurried over to hold open the front door.

“Now Momma Rose, be careful on this tile floor, it’s slick. I wish you would let me cut some of those tennis balls and put them on the legs of your walker. That’s supposed to be better than the rubber tips, they get worn and slick. You don’t want to go skidding across the lobby. Take your time.”

“I don’t want any balls on my walker, Charlene.  They’re tacky.” The strong voice belied the aging in the slow walk and stooped posture.

“Could you tell me where we go to apply for a gun license, please?” The middle aged woman asked the officer.

“If you brought everything you need, you can go straight to Probate Court on the second floor. You’ll see the door as soon as you get off the elevator. She can wait down here with me while you go up, if you like,” the office replied.

“Oh, the license isn’t for me, it’s for Momma Rose. She read an article about some guy somewhere taking advantage of nursing home ladies in the middle of the night and she wants to apply for a permit for protection. She lives at Sheltering Arms Retirement Community.’

“More like Smothering Arms,” replied the bent figure.

The officer blinked, clearly at a loss for words. “Uh, uh, ok, well, second floor. Elevator is just across the lobby there. But she doesn’t need a permit to buy a gun, only to carry one.”

Charlene looked puzzled and repeated to herself, “…doesn’t need a permit to buy a gun, just to carry a gun.” Her mouth was left open, her ability to reason frozen.

“Thank you, sir.” Momma Rose took advantage of the head start and turned in the direction the officer pointed.

Bump, step, step.

Her daughter-in-law caught up. “What is in this handbag of yours? It weighs a ton. I think you need a backpack, not a hand bag…”

Bump, step, step.

“We need to get you some toothpaste on the way back, don’t let me forget…”

Bump, step, step.

The one way conversation continued as the ladies waited on the elevator to arrive.

“Now watch out for that narrow opening on the floor, Momma Rose. Don’t get the walker caught in it. If you had tennis balls, you couldn’t get caught.”

“I don’t want balls on my walker, Charlene.”

“Now you hold steady, I’m going to push this button for the second floor. Well, I mean, there are only two floors, so I’d have to push the number two, but still and all, it might start with a jerk. There.”

They began a smooth lift to the second floor.

    “By the way, Momma Rose, that officer was a ‘Ma’am’, not a ‘Sir’.”

     “Well, all I could see was the belt buckle up close, but from a distance I saw a real short haircut and no make-up. Looked like a sir.”

“Now I’ll hold this door open while you get out. Don’t rush, I got the doors. Oomph, they are a little stubborn, but I got them, you go ahead. And that office might have been one of those LBGQ people, I’m not sure, but a woman. She had bosoms.”

Bump, step, step. Bump, step, step. 

“So what do they like to be called?” 

“I’m not rightly sure. I’ll have to ask around. Someone at the Senior Center might know. I’m going tomorrow night. I’ll ask. Be good to know.”

Bump, step, step.

The double doors to the reception area at the probate court were held open by a rubber tipped finger flipped rudely down to the hard vinyl floor. Several people crossed back and forth behind the counter, the way extras rush to the opposite side of a street when there is about to be a shootout in a movie. One lone, tall Black lady stood at the counter to help customers.

“Can I help you ladies?” She asked, her hands spread wide on the counter as if she were ready to vault over if need arose. 

“We need to get a permit to carry a gun. Are we in the right place? That nice officer downstairs said directly across from the elevators, so here we are.”

The Black lady reached expertly under the counter and through several unseen stacks and came up with a handful of forms. “Here you are, you just…”

“Oh, it’s not for both of us, it’s for Momma Rose here. She thinks she would feel safer if she had one in the retirement center,” Charlene clarified. “I’d kill someone for sure if I had a gun. Accidentally, I mean.”

One set of papers went back under the counter in the appropriate bins and attention was turned to Momma Rose.

“You just have to fill these out. I’ll do part of them because I have to ask you some questions and then you sign them. Then you take the others down the hall and get fingerprinted. They will direct you to where you pay your fee. Then in four weeks you come back and pick up your license if you didn’t bring a stamped envelope. Got it?”

Momma Rose had saddled up to the counter at an angle with her walker. She turned her head up and sideways and looked into the clerk’s eyes. “Got it.”

“Ok. Have you ever been convicted of yada yada yada possession yada yada …”

“No.”

“Ever had yada yada been convicted yada yada…making drugs…”

“No.”

“Any pending yada yada… alcohol…yada…past five years…”

“No. No. No.”

“Have you ever been committed to a mental hospital against your will?”

“Not yet.”

“Sorry, Ma’am. Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Are you over 21 years of age?”

“Over qualified on that one!”

“Sorry, Ma’am, you have to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

“Yes.”

“Alright, sign here, and here, and here. Initial here. I need to see proof of identity, legal residency, US citizenship and get $75 in cash in correct currency.”

Momma Rose managed to insert the pen between her wayward fingers and began to laboriously sign and initial all the checked boxes, blank lines, and highlights on the forms.

Charlene had stood by quietly but before Hell could freeze over she went into action. 

“Momma Rose, you want me to go through your bag and get your money and ID out and what all you’ll need?”

“Nope, I got it, Charlene, but thank you for your offer.”

Momma Rose pulled open the magnetic snap on her Vera Bradley cross body bag and pulled out a handful of documents, cash, and a self-addressed stamped envelope, held together with a rubber band, and slapped them on the counter.

The Black lady counted the money and wrote out a receipt. She looked over the documents and said, “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the cavern of moving bodies and pcs and printers and copiers and emerged with more documents than she had had when she left.

She stapled the copies and envelope to the forms and handed the original documents back to Momma Rose. “I’m going to send you back to the officers to be fingerprinted.” She looked at Momma Rose’s twisted fingers and pointed her own finger at Momma Rose like a mother would at a wayward child, “And don’t give them any problems,” she admonished. There was a momentary lapse in her business-like automation as she exchanged a sly smile with Momma Rose.

“In the next week a probate judge will request a criminal history records check and a background check. If you haven’t hidden any wayward past from me, your license will be mailed to you in a month. It’s good for five years.”

“Good for a lifetime,” commented Momma Rose.

“Momma Rose, I’m going to take you back to the fingerprint area and then I’ve got to find a bathroom. Those diuretic pills the doctor put me on have me running to the bathroom if I just see a bottle of water. You stay put till I come back, though. It won’t take long. I hope it won’t take long. Sometimes it’s a false alarm but I have to sit to make sure.”

#

When Charlene scampered back from the rest room, Momma Rose was waiting with her walker in the lobby near the elevator.

“Momma Rose, either your hearing is bad or my memory. Could be either, I swanny. You are too independent by far. Let’s get you on the elevator and home. Or the drug store. We need to go to the drug store.”

Momma Rose listened to more drug store items as they began the slow descent to the main entrance.

The elevator door opened.

Momma Rose began her way across the lobby to the exit. 

Bump, step, step. Bump, step, step.

Charlene began instructions. “Yada, yada, yada, and look at that yellow cone by that column, there must have been a spill. I bet it’s wet. Better walk around. If you had…”

“I don’t want tennis balls on my walker, Charlene”

The office hurried over to the door to assist the ladies. 

Charlene went ahead to get the car doors open and ready.

“Thank you…” Momma Rose tilted her head to see more, “…officer Bennet.”

“You’re welcome, Ma’am. Good luck getting your fire arm.”

“Oh, no worries there, Officer.” Momma Rose patted her cross body bag like burping a baby, then continued her journey.

Bump, step, step. Bump, step, step.

“Sheew!” The officer wiped invisible sweat off her brow. “I’d hate to be the one to catch that call,” she whispered to the universal consciousness as she returned to her lobby post.  

The car backed out of the parking space, turned toward the dead end of the parking lot, made a 12 point turn, and headed back out into an unsuspecting society.