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Gun
He wasn’t quite stroking it. But I could see a quiver to his hands. A poise, and an itch, ready in his arms to cradle it… a so much awareness of it just there waiting, menacing, cold wanting to be warm.
Holding a gun does that to a man.
Nor was this just any gun: Some manner of many rounds a second fully automatic assault rifle strapped to his chest, commando style; full get up, barrel pointing down, stock up, chin up, squinty eyes trying to hard to seem relaxed but instead flinty and flitting here and there, nervous. A studied but unsuccessful attempt at nonchalance but, really, commanding attention from every direction. The gun tied across his chest and abdomen in a manner that allowed his hands freedom but they were not free: every motion he made, every gesture, every rotation deferred and reacted as though tethered and orbiting the gun. His uniform, full SWAT regalia, deepest charcoal black with pockets and Velcro and extra ammo and, crazily enough, a 9mm handgun at his hip and a prominent bulge at his ankle.
And it pulled out, from deep, an anger in me I’ve not felt in a long time. I suppose it’s somewhat resistance to the idea that I have to get used to this sort of thing. How messed up is that? How crazy that I have to adjust to the presence of weaponry. It’s one thing for the pistol on the cops hip, but quite another for the gravity of this automatic weaponry. But more deeply…
