NOW AVAILABLE — Marty’s new short story collection, When Paris Beckons

WHAT WE NEED TO KNOW

The couple did not notice the animal. Scott whipped the Audi up the drive and Sally sang along to Waylen Jennings’ “I’ve Always Been Crazy” which blared over the Bose.  She reminded Scott that they needed to pick up some chewing tobacco the next time they rode into town. He sensed she was not kidding, and this pleased him. As one, they unlocked their seatbelts, opened their car doors, and stopped dead: they finally noticed the rabid fox. The sick animal’s jowls dripped as it moved to the top of the front porch stairs and stared Scott and Sally down.

“Don’t go near it; don’t touch it!” Sally warned.  Scott tensed his body and stood perfectly erect, an instinctive transition from mild-mannered graphic designer to frontier hero and protector of womenfolk. Scott found a fallen branch and flung it at the fox, which ducked, glowered, and advanced.

No stranger to wildlife, Scott was schooled by his grandfather on how to make loud noises, act “large” by raising one’s arms and do whatever it took to scare the scavengers off.

“I got this,” Scott said.  He opened the car door and honked the Audi’s horn. The fox raised its head skyward and howled.

“The bastard has perfect pitch – do you hear that?” Sally said, as the animal matched the frequency of their car’s horn, stared at the couple, and advanced again.

“Get in the car,” Scott said to his wife.  “Now!”  The fox took another step, and Scott got back behind the wheel and backed out of the driveway. 

“We need a fucking gun, that is for shit sure,” he said as the Brooklynites motored back to town.

***

Scott and Sally were bowled over by the wall display of rifles, shotguns, and handguns. The Saugerties Sport Center was a spacious, modern store. Sally marveled at the industrial design of each piece. The crisp, clean lines of the blue-barreled pistols and the hand checkered walnut stocks of the long guns appealed to her sense of aesthetics.  Scott simply saw them as tools needed in rural settings.

“How are you folks today? What can I do you for?” asked the store’s proprietor after allowing the couple to get their bearings. He sized them right up as soon as they wheeled their shiny new car into the lot.

The proprietor was a non-threatening sort, a friendly, pink-palmed man who could be mistaken for an earth science educator or weekend Foot Locker clerk. Locally renowned for his nice tight groupings at the range, he wore pressed chinos and a short-sleeved button down shirt with his name – Hal – embroidered on the shirt pocket in the same gaudy red script as their Sunoco guy, Billy.

Scott and Sally looked at each other, paused, then spoke as one.

“No, go ahead, you start,” Scott said to Sally. “You’ve got to be totally comfortable with this process.”

“That one!” Sally said, pointing to a burnished Winchester Model 12, an iconic shotgun found on the wall rack of many a sheriff’s office back in the day. “Let me hold that one!”

Hal reached back and proffered the nine-pound twelve gauge. “See, there’s this fox,” she sputtered as she reached for the Winchester as if it were a nail-studded Louisville Slugger. “We think it has rabies and there’s probably more out there in the woods behind the house, and….” Sally struggled with the shotgun’s heft and nearly dropped it.

Hal’s smile was warm, disarming, and honed with care. His customer base had evolved from local sportsmen to the so-called “covidiots”, pandemic-driven apartment people from downstate. He took the Winchester from Sally and placed it back on the wall.  “Have you called Animal Control? Ask for Jerry.  He’s my big brother. Won’t steer you wrong.”  Hal reached behind the counter and produced Jerry’s business card.

“Let me ask you,” Sally said. “As long as we’re here? For home protection? Which gun would you recommend?”

At that, Hal smiled again, for he saw in her face that she was hooked real good, bound and determined to buy. There was nothing he liked better than ending a long week with a home run sale to a couple of downstaters.

“The Model 12 is a beauty, an heirloom quality, true American classic.  It does what it’s supposed to do. But it’s a lot of shotgun. Let’s start at the beginning: either of you ever shoot a firearm?”

Again as one, they spoke:

“Nope,” she said.

“Yep,” he said.

“You’re probably better off with a robust security system and a good dog,” Hal said.  “However…” he continued, reaching for a short-barreled Remington 870 and offered it to Sally.  “Here, hold it…”

“Hold it, it won’t bite,” Hal said.  “That’s my best seller right there, chambered for twenty gauge. Much easier to handle, much less recoil.   That receiver? That’s milled from a solid billet of steel for strength and durability. Easy to point, accurate, smooth as silk. What you’re holding is precision, dependable, American-made quality.”   

“It’s so light!” Sally said, as she swung the shotgun around to his right, in front of Hal’s face.

“Whoa! Easy there,” Hal said, motioning for the Remington. 

“Sorry,” Sally said, sensing she’d broken cardinal rules of firearm safety.

“Now, let’s go through this, step by step,” Hal said, going into his well-practiced spiel. Forty minutes later, FBI background check done, the couple loaded the Remington, a nylon flotation case, five boxes of ammo, a cleaning kit, and gun lock into the back of the Audi.

Hal waved to them as they got into their car.  “Hope we never have to use it,” Scott said, with a return wave.

“Amen to that!” Hal said. 

And as they drove off, Scott turned to Sally and smiled. “Let’s get some watermelons.”

“Watermelons?”

“Yeah, for practice,” he said with a chuckle.

“Amen to that!” Sally said.