Holster

If you insist on always getting your own way,

on having so much “freedom” that no one can ask you

to cede a personal “right” you want for yourself

in order to make life decent for all of us,

then don’t be surprised if one day you find yourself

nearly killed by a “right” you unthinkingly granted.

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Sounds reasonable—until someone almost kills you because of your own selfishness.

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Holster

The folding chairs were set in rows. Their steel legs screeched on the tile. The banner read TOWN SAFETY MEETING. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A patrolman leaned on the wall, arms crossed. People held their phones or rested them in their laps, cameras at the ready.

The mayor cleared his throat at the podium to quiet the chatter. Then he began, “Cats in dumpsters, fireworks in alleys—small things, but they matter.” He tried to calm the agitation in the room with his matter-of-fact tone.

The back door banged open. In stomped Clyde Perkins, chest puffed, a Ruger Blackhawk .357 heavy on his hip in a sagging nylon holster. The townsfolk murmured, then hushed. Clyde raised his voice. “Someone’s gotta be ready if trouble walks in.”

“Sit, Mr. Perkins,” said the mayor, his tone level as glass. “We’ll manage without weapons.”

Clyde swaggered down the center aisle, turning sideways between the rows so everyone could see the revolver at his hip. He brushed the grip with his hand. “Just showing I’ve got the town’s back.”

The frayed nylon holster caught on a chair hinge. Clyde jerked free, and the revolver tumbled out, hitting the tile with a crack that spun the cylinder. A brass cartridge head gleamed under the fluorescent lights. The hammer clicked against the floor, but the safety bar held and the gun didn’t go off. The sharp tang of cleaning solvent rose from the gun in the astonished hush. Everyone knew Clyde doted on his guns obsessively.

“You nearly shot yourself,” someone cried, “or one of us!” Another voice laughed with scorn.

Clyde stooped, jammed the revolver back into the holster, and dropped into a seat, legs wide. The patrolman still leaned against the wall, but now his hand was on his sidearm. The new open-carry law prevented him from removing Clyde, but he knew this was just the beginning.

The solvent stink hung in the air. People stared at the floor. Clyde sat with his thumb drumming the revolver’s grip nervously. The mayor went on, steady. But the crowd had changed. Every ear was cocked for the next gun to fall.