Open Carry
Examples of myself in others
The girl in the convenience store blurred the line between my wanting and wanting to be.
I’m often stuck there.
Standing behind her, my mouth fell open as I stared. I snapped it shut before she could catch me in the act — like a husband closing Grindr when his wife returns to the car.
But it didn’t matter: girls like her don’t turn around — don’t need to. They’re the centerpiece of their own universe, too full of life and power to waste curiosity on anyone else.
These thoughts machine-gunned through my head, embarrassing and ridiculous, like that scene in A Beautiful Mind when he’s solving an equation he invented but doesn’t know he did.
But back to the woman who had hijacked my attention completely. Her hair: two inches of root, then that bleach blonde I love — creamy, yellowish-white. Tawdry like an 80s stripper but also giving old Hollywood glamour. Nobody’s born that shade. It says something: she tends to herself. Thirty minutes of peroxide on virgin hair she’s waging chemical warfare against.
She had small hands, with tiny pointed acrylics. She flipped something over in those hands, which were dirty like she hadn’t bathed in days. Then there was her filthy blue sweater. The giant, muscular Doberman she had on a leash had apparently trampled across it, leaving dusty paw prints up and down her back. Just then: a stab of envy. The wanting-to-be thing again. What would it feel like to walk around with grime under my fingernails, unwashed hair, and not giving a single fuck who notices?
She had a stained burgundy bandana hanging from her skinny jeans. Fashion or function? I couldn’t tell. She seemed like the type to use it to wipe oil from her fingers while changing engine parts without assistance from a drunk brother or irritable dad. Her black patent leather boots had thick, towering block heels. They were brand new. No scrapes. No scuffs. They gleamed — dramatically offsetting her unwashed clothes.
Then the main event: a gun at her hip. A very unconcealed carry.
Jealousy sliced through me again, cruel and familiar. That was supposed to be me right there: pistol-packing, taking up space like I own all the oxygen — a woman with the audacity to be dangerous instead of endangered. When I saw it, I practically willed her to turn around so I could blurt out “You’re hot” like some idiot teenager with zero impulse control.
This scene reminded me of the time my mom lectured me about an open carry being a bad idea. I told her that was bullshit. The whole point of the gun is to show people you’re not the one. For women, especially, it’s the fastest way to be left alone because they figure you’re brazen enough to use it.
Mom said the opposite — a gun is an invitation for trouble, to be tested to determine if you’re worth your salt. Are you too scared to pull the trigger? The equivalent of You’re asking for it, Wyatt Earp. We agreed to disagree. But at the end of the day, I’m sick of her opinions based on what? Breaking news? Doom-scrolling? A wild imagination? I wish she’d let bad girls be bad.
As I left, I didn’t look back to try and make eye contact. No guts. But, ultimately, standing behind her was all I needed. She and girls like her are exactly what I could be if I get out of my own way. I’m a scaredy-cat who wants to change species. I want to be a big bad wolf. There’s this theory that you can’t be jealous of something you don’t already see in yourself. I like that. It’s something I can work with.
—M