On a need-to-know bases

I asked my Sweet Al a simple question. I wanted a simple answer. I only needed to know what I needed to know for my novel I’m writing.  After two hours of deliberation, with tongue-in-cheek, I said, “I just wanted to know where babies come from.”

He laughed, I know I got carried away, but you need to know these things if you’re going to write about them. Men know about guns. They will know you don’t know anything.

I added the only knowledge I had to this well-scripted-one-sided dialogue. Well, women know about guns, too. I have four close friends who carry guns. They’ve all gone to gun school. I never understood it. I thought it was a fear-driven-pre-occupation thing with them, but apparently it’s a new day and they feel they need to carry a gun for protection.

My Bible teacher totes a gun on his belt to class. He’s got a permit to carry it. I asked him why he carried a gun to Bible Study? I told him, we’re not going to attack him. He doesn’t have to be afraid of us, unless, of course, he speaks Greek.

He said there was three men stationed every Sunday morning at church with guns. I asked him why the church? Can’t we all be peace-loving citizens? I thought that’s where we sing peace like a river and Jesus loves me, this I know.

I’ve heard a few boring sermons that went on and on and on, and if I would ‘ve had a loaded gun, I would’ve used it on the preacher or turned it on myself.  I told my Sweet Al, this all sounds like Hell on Wheels. Now, the Church Lady has taken revenge and shot the bad guy.

Al had another shell in his barrel and another story to tell. “You’re right, take Hell on Wheels, Cullen Bohannon carried a Griswold, when he got arrested by the Union troops, he lost it, and he end up with a 1858 Remington 45-caliber. Jack Campbell, the Carpetbagger, is carrying a later model. It’s called a 45 hog leg.

My only response to My Sweet Al with all this information was, “Bohannon is so cute, I don’t care what kind of gun he carries.”

Al said, you asked me and I’m telling you. He pulled out his Winchester twelve-gauge shotgun. “I rode my bicycle down to Wing Pawn Shop in Albuquerque and bought it when I was in junior high. The Pawn Shop is still there. It’s my favorite gun.”

Al was in his glory days talking about guns. It was like when he was selling insurance. I had to listen to every story about every policy he sold and how he sold it.

I was exasperated. All I needed to know is when Libby pulls the shotgun from the ironing board cabinet, what does she do before she pumps it? I wanted to write about the crackling sound. I didn’t want to know anything else.

Al said, “It’s the most eerie noise when you hear that pump pulled back and the shell is pushed into the barrel, the crackling sound will cause someone to ruin his pants.

I don’t think I’ll go that far on this story. Maybe another story and another day.  I am on a need-to-know adventure. My character, Libby, a rancher’s wife in 1977 in Archuleta County pulls a shotgun on an unwanted guest and peppers the kitchen ceiling

 My editor friend said, “A rancher’s wife knows how to shoot a gun. When she takes a gun off the rack and aims it, she won’t miss. You might want to rethink your scene.”

Well, this country wife only wants to know how to write it. I might want to rethink the scene before I ask My Sweet Al about guns again.

Final Brushstroke: Can’t I just wing it? I feel like I have stepped into Charlie’s Gun Shop in Albuquerque and I’m trapped by an enthusiastic salesman who thinks he’s going to make a sale. He’s got a frozen stare, a live buyer, and he’s giving me the McCabe Nod. “You want it, don’t you?” He hands me his pen. “Just sign here!