We threw on our dirty jeans and boots, jumped in the truck and headed for Lemay, overcome with a veritable sense of patriotic duty. No more than a half-minute into town did there appear a pawn shop straight out of central casting, with Western red lettering over the storefront and at least three suits of armor standing sentry.
We buzzed (per the handwritten request on the door) and were admitted immediately. "Well, hell, that's great!" said the guy behind the counter. "Most everybody just tries banging the damn thing open!"
Our eyes opened wide as pies to the taxidermy — a stuffed duck, and tons of deer, skinned eels and snakes, maybe a turkey. So much hair. The guy behind the counter had himself an eight-inch rattail, braided.
There were weapons, too — pistols and rifles and shotguns, switchblades and jackknives, spent mortars and rockets. A hefty selection, to be sure, though it didn't take us long to finger a few Smith & Wessons, imagine a neck-smashing and blurt, "that one."
During the FBI background check, we envisioned duck breast with sour cherry sauce, medium rare, maybe a touch of cinnamon, plated with a celery purée and, of course, our very first fresh-kill.
The shopkeeper returned and told us how he's been busy as blazes. "Ever since the election," he offered, "both sides are armin'."
Huh. We pondered this a moment — so much for the theory that a Democratic president would wipe out the Second Amendment — then wondered whether the blue donkeys were stockpiling shotguns, the red elephants packing pistols.
"Let me tell you," the shopkeeper went on, "we've been having to buy all kinds of new stock to keep up with demand. It's both the blacks and the whites that's arming themselves."
"Oh, yeah. I ain't kidding. They're going to have this inauguration and somebody's goin' to try to shoot him and then we're going to have us some race wars."
Unreal nodded, as if to say, "Of course."
While the car lots are jammed with metal and the computer stores can't sell a mousepad, we're the beneficiaries of gun bunnies upgrading from shotguns to semi-automatics.
"Both sides — hmm-mmm," chirped the shopkeeper, swiping our plastic. "People are going to get hurt. That I can tell you."
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About the blogger: Kelli is a "writer, teacher, student, liberal, feminist, environmentalist, beer connoisseur and all-around loudmouth." She has a husband (who also blogs), a dog, a cat and a potty mouth.
Recent Highlight (November 14): Friday Fumblings: Walking on Broken Glass Edition
Oh. My. God. I am so excited it's Friday I can't even stand it. Last weekend was a blast, but I left for Omaha straight from work on Friday, drank until my liver hurt, then drove home on Sunday, not getting home until late. That type of life can kill you. Congratulations to my friend Pottie and her new husband, Jason. The wedding was particularly swanky, I reunited with all my old soccer teammates, one former Truman Soccer assistant coach sang Journey on a chair, and Missy confused Lenny Kravitz with Annie Lennox. It happens.
It really was a great, great reunion, but it kicked me in the ass. I am really looking forward to sleeping in, cleaning, and running errands. I don't even care if that makes me sound lame and like the wife on Old School. Nope, not one bit. Bitches need to get shit done around here, including my woefully overdue papers (although one is done). My goal is to have everything done by Sunday night, lifting the massive weight that's been on my shoulders. Then that weight can promptly be replaced by another.
I've felt very paralyzed — I've had a very tough time adjusting my schedule to balance the new job and my studies. I'm not sure what it is — I don't have to take work home, which is a big change from teaching, but the commute is long and I'm very tired when I get home. I try to do work, but the reading for this past month was very, very difficult, and I couldn't concentrate. I even considered swiping some of my friend John's Adderall in an attempt to self-medicate. But let's keep it real — I drink a pot of coffee a day. There's no need to add prescription drugs not prescribed to me into the mix. Unless you've got some Vicodin. Kidding. Or not. But I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to balance everything, because I've been incredibly unsuccessful in that area for the past month. I'm sure my professors think I'm a slacker idiot at this point. This may, in fact, be true, but I do feel like I had some extenuating circumstances.
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