MJ Malleck 118 Alan Brickman

FRANK’S FIRST GUN by Alan Brickman

When he lived up North, Frank never considered getting a gun. Even in situations when

he felt threatened, it wouldn't have occurred to him. But here in Louisiana, in New Orleans,

most people he knew – men and women, old and young, every race and ethnicity – had guns.

People talked about their guns all the time – 22s, 38s, 45s, pistols, rifles, shotguns, AR-15s,

automatics, semi-automatics. Frank knew people who kept them safely stored and secured, and

others who kept them in an unlocked drawer in the living room. He knew people who kept one

in their car, and others in their purse or brief case, ready at all times.

Whenever Frank read a newspaper account of another mass shooting, he became more

anxious about all the guns. Nowhere felt reliably safe anymore. His conviction that there were

"too many guns" seemed validated on an almost daily basis. When a random argument on a

drunken Friday night got heated and someone said, "You wanna go outside?" it used to mean a

fist fight, but now it could just as easily become shots fired.

And yet, here he was.

Frank pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript strip mall and saw the sign above the

storefront he came looking for – Sportsman's Guns and Ammo. When he tried to enter the

store, the door was locked, so he stepped back to see if there was a notice indicating hours of

operation. Instead, he saw two posters, one with a picture of an old-fashioned six-shooter with

the caption, "We Don't Dial 911," and another with a photo of a snarling teenager pointing a

gun straight at the camera that said, "Second Amendment College of Art: We're Looking for

People Who Like to Draw."

"Look up into the camera," said a voice over a scratchy intercom. He did, and a buzzer

sounded. He pulled on the handle and walked in, hopeful, apprehensive, a little terrified. He

replayed in his mind the series of events that got him here.

Frank was robbed twice in the last month, both times at gun point. One evening, he was

walking home after beer and chicken wings at his local bar when a man jumped out of the

shadows, screamed unintelligibly, and punched him on the side of the head before jamming a

gun in his face and demanding all his money. Frank put his hands up like he's seen in a million

movies and TV shows. He tried to speak but was too nervous to get the words out. A soon as

he gave the man what he guessed was about fifty dollars, the guy grabbed it and ran. Frank was

thankful for three things – that he paid cash at the bar and therefore had a little less with him

now, that he carried his money separately from the wallet that held his license and credit cards,

and that he didn't get shot. He was still shaking when he got to his apartment. He locked the

door, turned off the lights, and sat quietly in the dark. He woke up the next morning on the

couch in his clothes.

About a week and a half later, in the middle of the afternoon, Frank had just finished a

short jog through City Park, and was walking back to his car. Two teenage boys came up

behind him. "Hey, Mister," one said in a high squeaky voice. When Frank turned, he saw one

boy, short and wiry, pointing a gun at him while the other one, taller and heavier, stepped

around Frank, presumably to prevent an escape. "Gimme your fuckin' money, white boy!" the

small one said. He looked around nervously. "Now!"

Frank pointed to his gym shorts and said, "I'm not carrying any money. I'm just out

jogging." He immediately regretted saying this, he thought it made him sound even whiter.

"This is bullshit," the bigger one said from behind Frank. Frank shrugged and braced

for the worst. The little one raised his gun, then pointed it in the air and fired a shot. The blast

was still ringing in Frank's ears as the assailants jumped on two small bikes that were leaning

against a tree and rode off, pedaling as fast as they could. Frank walked unsteadily to the side

of the path, put both hands on a chain link fence, and threw up.

About an hour later, sitting in a police station lobby waiting to give his statement, he

ran through all the comments about firearms he'd heard over the years from people in New

Orleans. Again and again, he'd heard something like, "I'm really glad I had a gun after Katrina,

when the city was empty and there was still no power. I sat on my front porch with my gun in

my lap so no one would fuck around." Whenever people talked about a recent home invasion

in the neighborhood, someone would invariably say, "Let 'em show up at my house. I'll blow

their fuckin' heads off!" As he watched police officers walk through the halls of the station,

guns on their hips, something flipped in Frank. He was going to do it, he was going to buy his

first gun, his resolve was steadfast, free from any further consideration or second thoughts.

Frank asked his friend Sam where he should go. Sam was a part-time bartender and

Iraq War veteran who had lots of guns. He seemed pleased and excited when Frank asked him

about it. "Sportsman's Guns and Ammo," Sam said, with a smile. "It's in Gretna on the West

Bank. Ask for George, he owns the place. He's an Army buddy of mine. He inherited the store

from his father, and he knows more about guns than anybody. Tell him we're friends. He'll take

care of you."

The gun shop was brightly lit and the air conditioning was turned way up. Frank was

surprised that the music playing was a jazz trumpet instrumental, Miles or maybe Chet Baker.

He thought it would be heavy metal. Guns of all shapes and sizes were in locked cabinets

more than a hundred on display. The place was more spacious, uncluttered, and professional-

looking than the exterior storefront led Frank to expect, and was well-stocked enough for a

small private army to ready themselves for the siege of a distant enemy stronghold.

"First time, son? We love the first-timers," said a man who appeared from the back

room. He walked in front of the counter and shook Frank's hand. "I'm George. Welcome to

Sportsman's." He had thick salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a ponytail and a deep raspy voice.

"Hi. My name's Frank. What makes you think this is my first time?"

"Good to meet you, Frank. I've been at this for a while, and you have that look. You

know when country folk visit the big city and can't stop staring up at the skyscrapers?" He

shrugged his shoulders.

"Fair enough," said Frank with a smile. "My friend Sam Corso in New Orleans sent me

here. He said you two were in the service together and that I should ask for you."

"That's great! Sam's good people. So, what can I do for you?"

"Well, you got any guns for sale in this place?"

"Sure," said George, smiling. "I'll bet I can dig up something in the back. What are you

in the market for?"

"A handgun. Not too big and bulky, easy to use, … I don't know, maybe a semi-

automatic?"

"I got you, Frank. Let's look at some options." He bent down, unhooked a wad of keys

from his belt, and unlocked the case. Without looking up, he asked, "So Frank, why are you

here? What's your story? Every first-timer has a story. Did you recently get robbed or

something?"

This disoriented Frank, someone he'd just met being so casual but also oddly prescient

about what was driving his gun purchase. "Yeah, something like that," Frank said, trying to

sound nonchalant. "But you're right. Twice actually, and that's what got me thinking about it. I

moved to New Orleans almost seven years ago, and I have to say, when you live in this city,

sooner or later you feel like you need a gun."

George smiled and nodded. "So, do you think you're ready?"

"Ready for what?"

George pulled out half a dozen handguns, some with names Frank recognized like

Smith & Wesson or Glock, and some that he didn't. George was a knowledgeable and skillful

salesman, walking through specs, terms of comparison, and value for the money with practiced

ease. Frank felt like this was no different than buying high-end stereo equipment, a blur of

jargon, and many more features to consider than he would have thought.

Frank ultimately chose something on the higher-end of the scale, a CZ-75 semi-

automatic pistol. It was a nice size, and felt comfortable and substantial in his hand. When he

told George that he also liked that it was manufactured in the Czech Republic and was called

"The Phantom," George rolled his eyes and said, "Whatever floats your boat. But you got

yourself a really nice piece of machinery. Congratulations."

Frank completed and signed the paperwork, then paid in cash. He'd brought eight one-

hundred-dollar bills, and was happy he didn't have to use them all. Barely an hour after he'd

entered the store, Frank stood on the sidewalk in the New Orleans midday heat and humidity

with his new gun in a locked black hard-shell carrying case slightly smaller than a briefcase, a

leather shoulder holster, and two boxes of bullets. He couldn't quite believe he'd actually done

it.

When Frank got home, he called Sam. "I finally got over to Sportsman's."

"Isn't George a great guy?" Sam said.

"Definitely. And guess what I bought. A CZ-75 Phantom! You know the Czech…"

"Ooh, fancy," Sam said. "What, are you joining the CIA? I'm just kidding, but really,

that's a great gun. I know a guy who has one that he actually bought over there and had shipped

back to the States. He loves it. Good job. Now don't go shooting anybody … unless they

deserve it!"

For the first few days, Frank laid the open carrying case on his coffee table and just

stared at his new purchase. One weekday evening, he drove to a shooting range that George

recommended for a little practice. The man at counter saw the carrying case, and asked Frank

what kind of gun he had. When Frank told him, the man said, "Right on. We don't get many of

those in here. Can I have a look?"

Frank shot for about an hour. He got comfortable with the gun's action and recoil, and

was gratified to see his aim improving.

Frank kept the gun locked in the case on a high shelf in his bedroom closet. He didn't

take it out for a week or so, but was always very aware it was there. When he received his

conceal carry permit in the mail, he decided he would take it out for a spin.

Frank put on the holster, slipped the gun in, and looked at himself in the full-length

mirror. He put on a blue sport coat, grabbed his keys, and stepped outside. He felt hyper-alert

and slightly euphoric. Electrified.

Frank drove to Marian's, a neighborhood restaurant with great food and a cool bar

scene. His friend Connie, who he hadn't seen in a while, was bartending, and he leaned in to

hug her. He saw her steal a quick glance down the front of his jacket. She grabbed his wrist and

pulled him toward her so she could whisper in his ear. "Since when do you carry a gun? Are

you out of your fuckin' mind? Take that shit out of here before Marian sees it. She hates, and I

mean hates, when anybody but the off-duty cops she hires for security bring guns into the

restaurant. She'll bar you and call the police."

"I'm really sorry, Connie. Never again, I promise." When he got home, he locked the

gun in its case, put it back in the closet, and didn't take it out for two weeks.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and Frank was bored just sitting around the house. He

decided to take out the Phantom so he could clean and reload it. He heard a loud car engine

outside, so he walked to the front door to see what it was. He pulled the curtain aside and,

although it took him a few seconds to realize what was going on, he saw a man stealing several

packages that had been delivered to his neighbors' front porch across the street. Another man

was waiting for him in a car at the curb. Frank opened his door, stepped outside, and yelled,

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" The man on the other porch didn't even look up. Frank

still had the gun in his hand, so he lifted it above his head and fired into the air. That got the

man's attention, and he grabbed the packages and started running to the car. Frank lowered the

gun and fired at the robber. His first shot missed, and smashed through the front window of his

neighbors' house. But the next shot hit the man in the leg, just below the knee. The man

screamed, limped the last few steps, and threw the packages and then himself into the car's

open door. The tires screeched as the car sped away.

Frank saw several other neighbors step out of their front doors to see what the

commotion was. He held the gun behind his back, stepped backward into his house, and closed

the door. His mind was racing. What the fuck did I just do? I couldda killed somebody! Oh fuck

oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck! They're gonna come back! They know where I live. Shit. They have

guns. I am so fucked.

Frank turned off all the lights and drew the blinds. He sat in the dark, in a chair facing

the front door, with the Phantom in his lap. Waiting for … what? Not feeling ready at all.