The Gun Shop

The insertion of a bullet into an old Winchester single-shot 22 rifle ought to be easy even for an inexperienced urbanite lawyer, but for the small pin piece of metal sticking up in the chamber right where the bullet would seem to go. This necessitated a recent trip to a Maryland gun shop, rifle in the back of the Chrysler van, since this urbanite knows that what he doesn't know might lead to an explosion near his face. On the drive a certain inexplicable unease settled in, beyond the usual worries about work, family, red light cameras or explaining to an officer why one has a rifle in the van, which ought to be illegal but for some problem with commas in the 2nd Amendment. The dread deepened as the drive continued, and then the reason dawned--a sudden memory of an Updike short story, the Gun Shop, where a flat Boston lawyer accompanies his father to a gun shop during a trip home to the old family farmhouse in Pennsylvania, and is unable to engage in small talk with the colorful old characters gathered in the shop. Not wanting to be the poster boy for the emptiness of modernity, I committed myself to ease, charm and small talk, but as I entered the store I was disoriented by the arsenal on walls and in glass cases, and three big salesmen and one unsmiling saleswoman carrying pistols on their belts. It was at that moment that I decided to just be who I was, an out-of-it novice in need of expertise, which led to the desired answer (the pin is used to pull the casing back after the bullet is fired), some curiosity in the store about the exact model of the Winchester, and some conversation about gun safety and places to shoot and how one staff person recently moved to the country where he can shoot off his porch, but can still commute to work on the train.

In retrospect I don't know if I succeeded in avoiding modernity, who knows what they said after I left, but I know the colorful old characters, like my Dad, would be glad I tried.