“You can’t transport the gun across state lines,” explained Tom. “Alright,” I said, in no mood to argue as I walk towards the van that needs to be driven 180-miles back to Vancouver tonight.
I was perturbed, considering getting the gun was my grandfather’s idea. “I want a handgun to take to the shooting range,” I explained to my grandfather. “Angela has my old service revolver. Take that,” he said. Granted, I only wanted the gun so that I could take a friend to the shooting range, but I could just as easily buy a Saturday night special; my grandfather's service revolver has sentimental value.
I marinated in frustration during the trip back to Vancouver, as I would have left Seattle hours ago but choose to wait for the gun, which never came. Sometimes setbacks are blessings in disguise.
Arriving at a friend’s house at 1AM, I park the van and begin unloading some tools and a laptop I borrowed in a back alley driveway. As I prepared to open the garage door a cop rolls up; shinning a light in my face. “Put your hands where I can see them,” he shouts from inside the patrol vehicle, “and give me your ID.”
“Which one is it?” I respond. “The ID,” he retorts. Sizing up the situation quickly, this cop thinks I am robbing the house. “I’m just dropping some things off,” I say, “Look, I’m putting stuff near the garage not in the van.” This cop thinks himself smart. “What are you doing here so late?” he asks.
I respond to his questions but his interest is still piqued. “I am supposed to be here. I’ve got keys to the front door and know the code to enter the garage,” I say. “Open the garage then,” he retorts.
After I open the garage and suffer through another 10-minutes of questions and answers, the cop leaves. After putting the stuff borrowed inside, I start my motorcycle, preparing to leave. I had no backpack or saddlebags and was planning on carrying the gun behind my belt home.
Luckily I never got the gun; otherwise I’d be explaining this story to a judge.
I was perturbed, considering getting the gun was my grandfather’s idea. “I want a handgun to take to the shooting range,” I explained to my grandfather. “Angela has my old service revolver. Take that,” he said. Granted, I only wanted the gun so that I could take a friend to the shooting range, but I could just as easily buy a Saturday night special; my grandfather's service revolver has sentimental value.
I marinated in frustration during the trip back to Vancouver, as I would have left Seattle hours ago but choose to wait for the gun, which never came. Sometimes setbacks are blessings in disguise.
Arriving at a friend’s house at 1AM, I park the van and begin unloading some tools and a laptop I borrowed in a back alley driveway. As I prepared to open the garage door a cop rolls up; shinning a light in my face. “Put your hands where I can see them,” he shouts from inside the patrol vehicle, “and give me your ID.”
“Which one is it?” I respond. “The ID,” he retorts. Sizing up the situation quickly, this cop thinks I am robbing the house. “I’m just dropping some things off,” I say, “Look, I’m putting stuff near the garage not in the van.” This cop thinks himself smart. “What are you doing here so late?” he asks.
I respond to his questions but his interest is still piqued. “I am supposed to be here. I’ve got keys to the front door and know the code to enter the garage,” I say. “Open the garage then,” he retorts.
After I open the garage and suffer through another 10-minutes of questions and answers, the cop leaves. After putting the stuff borrowed inside, I start my motorcycle, preparing to leave. I had no backpack or saddlebags and was planning on carrying the gun behind my belt home.
Luckily I never got the gun; otherwise I’d be explaining this story to a judge.
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