THE GUN GIVES NO DOMINION

Part of the reason I came to New Mexico this trip is because it’s time for me to sell my guns. As a nearly lifelong New Yorker, I’ve lived in the city at its most lawless in modern times. Consequently most of my experience with deadly weapons came at the wrong end. One robbery, pistol in chest. Another, pistol in back. One (unsuccessful), pistol in face. One boxcutter held to throat. And one silly girlfriend making a joke that didn’t know there was a full magazine in. I was raised in a tradition of pacifism and non-violence, and never owned even a toy gun. When I got my New Mexico driver’s license, I thought, “why not?”. I can just buy one, learn to use it, it might be valuable knowledge one day. Indeed, it has been valuable knowledge - in ways I never suspected at the time.

The gun show I went to here in New Mexico to buy my first firearm was a pretty fascinating and comprehensive affair. Not nearly as strange as the gun show I recently attended in Ohio, where there was some true insanity on display - currently manufactured Nazi flags, etc. Unlike NYC where guns are strictly forbidden and carry criminal penalties, there’s no real mystique out here in the wild west. Virtually no laws, easy access. Guns are a casual daily reality and have been since early times.

I bought a .357 and learned to shoot. My next purchase was a crazy Dirty Harry thing, a stainless .44 magnum with an 8” barrel. Having tried one at the shooting range I found I was good with it. It was loud, brawny, exciting to shoot, a bit scary. It carried the same roughneck thrill as a powerful motorcycle.

I bought it from a gun salesman I’ve come to know and whose company I enjoy a lot. Mike Stryker is affable, bright, honest, loyal, self-sufficient, hardworking, competent. He’s one of the most likeable people I’ve ever met and he projects admirable values and confidence. His knowledge of his chosen field is encyclopedic - he has that nerdly enthusiasm that I’ve seen in so many of my other friends that are record, guitar or amp collectors, and a special gleam lights his eyes when he starts to talk about weaponry. His world is consumed by it, and I believe his deep interest in the subject began as a matter of survival - he’s a decorated Gulf War veteran, a fact he barely mentions.

But when discussing the finer points of bullets, a very unsettling moment is breached. Mike knows everything about ammunition. Muzzle velocity, seating force, impact velocity, stopping power. All the injuries a round is likely to inflict on a living body. The conversation turns to the subject of death, horrors, and bodily harm, and the gleam in Mike’s eye becomes as blinding and shocking as an unexpected muzzle-flash on a dark night. It is at this moment that you know for certain that all this person’s fine and admirable qualities are corrupted by bloodlust.

“Vindicator”, “Paladin”, “The Judge”, "The Peacemaker". The given names of the weapons evoke justice, fairness, rightness, courage, righteous power, even nobility. The pieces themselves are, to a gearhead like me, beautiful. Fit and finish, precision, details. Like Mike, one could become blinded to the essential evil contained in their true purpose - killing.

Driving through the country on scores of Memorial Highways, past monuments and Civil and Revolutionary War battlefields and all the giant roadside crosses, an outside observer could easily assume that the history of America is a history of violence, with the “memento mori” as its central motif. The huge effigies of Roman torture instruments cast long shadows over the lush late-summer southlands, once the fertile crescent of rock’n’roll. One might question the ultimate sanity of an intelligent and accomplished species that so readily accepts that bloodshed and killing are inevitable and right, even in the face of a dominant religion that unequivocally condemns killing as one of the ultimate denials of spirituality and morality.

Through my exposure to the world of weapons I have come to the conclusion that the enemies that truly warrant my constant vigilance are impeccably dressed, well-spoken, educated, and wish me no direct harm. Their aim is not to hurt me personally, but to further their own agendas through influence and persuasion. They wield economic and political power, never firepower. They would rather sing me to sleep than shoot me, exploit loyalty and love of freedom to arouse righteous rage that beats plowshares into swords. They would put the gun into my hands.

The gun gives us no dominion over death. The Great Mystery comes to us all, and it’s not a subject I enjoy or like to consider often. There are other, more compelling riddles that bind humanity and occupy my thoughts - love, and the road ahead.