We re-trace I-38 until the pavement lifts off of the ground and completes a dramatic vertical loop, the crest of which is at least 200’ in the air. I suggest we avoid it entirely by navigating the dry grass just off-road but, as I edge the bike’s leading wheel off the gravel, a washed-out state-trooper car further along the way flashes its lights and that’s that. I don’t want police involvement, no matter the absurdity of the situation, and the Editor is suspiciously quick to agree. We turn around and head east, again, the both of us holding our breath as we pass the cemetery, the both of us remembering a day-old hangover as we pass the bar.
The sun never quite sets, here. The horizon never approaches. We drive for a long time along a stretch of road with a lazy cartoon backdrop- the same trees, birds, clouds- until a speck in the distance becomes the busy parking lot of an event space. A banner overhead reads, simply:
‘GUNS’
‘The mutant offspring of the ‘Free Market’ and ‘Constitutional Rights,’ there is always a gun show happening somewhere in America, always a crowd of people to attend it.
It’s a funny thing: relatively few fatalities have been reported at gun shows. On the other hand, like a rash that foreshadows a deadly fever, firearm-based fatalities inevitably rise in their wake as though these events exist at the eye of some subtle storm that stretches across time. They are a haven for scheming, for pre-meditation. A place for subtle nods and quick handshakes. They were not always this way but they are most certainly that way now and, not unlike the weapons that exchange hands at gun show, their once-purpose is greatly overshadowed by the consequence of their misuse. So, maybe not funny.
The shows vary greatly by region, but a few universal aspects stand out among them. They bring about an atmosphere of smug camaraderie among attendants and a subtle paranoia regarding the rest of the world, as though the act of non-attendance is suspicious in and of itself. There will always be trucks in the lot outside, vacant and idling. There will always be men standing nearby, though not so near as to assume ownership of the trucks. There will be accessories to firearms for sale- racks, packs, and ammunition. There will be meat for sale alongside the guns that killed the animals. There will be a smell like smoke in the air. There will be a tangible craving for cigarettes.
The author would suggest avoiding gun shows to the extent that its possible, though, having seen one ahead, they will likely be the safest place in miles.’
“I just want to use the restroom.”
The Editor insists that we attend, that we pay the $5 entry fee, and she promptly forgets about the bathroom. She insists on displaying the pistol openly once we’re inside, opening her jacket dramatically wide. Nobody seems to mind.
She zips her jacket closed as we arrive in the vendor area.
The guns for sale are outrageous. Many seem warped, as though by a cancer that knows only that firearms are made to kill. They sprout auxiliary barrels. They glisten with knives. Stocks bulge to form clubs and shells cling to cobalt as though held there by magnets. In another section all of the guns are designed to point backward, toward the shooter. The more winding the path of the bullet, the more intricate the barrel re-direction, the more expensive the gun.
“How convenient,” the Editor jokes, prodding a spiraled revolver.
“Guaranteed to do the deed,” grumbles a man behind the counter, hardly more than a pile of dry cloth.
“Wouldn’t it explode?” she asks.
“Two paths to the same place,” he coughs.
The Editor brushes her fingers across the cold metal and startles when I press her forward. There are guns for sale that claim to take ammunition of any caliber, with great input valves that shuffle bullets like a coin counters. There are, in some corners, machines that claim to be guns, machines that take shells and have triggers but have no clear means of output.
“Dare you?” a sign hanging above them asks and, with varied emphasis below, “Dare you?”
Neither of us dare. We leave the gun show, weaving through a labyrinth of idling trucks to the bike and the familiar weight of its trailer. Having determined that there is no point traveling backward on I-38, we press on.
-traveler
