(S&W Model 28)

I can’t get around the coincidence of the model of the Smith and Wesson hand-cannon and the day, so we will have to go with it and get over it.

Orion the Hunter is hovering to the west, over the green tarp covering the pool at Big Pink, and the wind is blowing cold for the first time this year.
 
The memory of sweet sweaty warmth is gone, along the leaves, and we continue our plunge into darkness. It was gray at the Dulles Expo Center, when I met Merlin to conclude the deal that had begun a week ago.

We parked, driver’s window to driver’s window, and I produced a receipt. He remembered me well enough, and reached into the back seat for the blue steel object. He was a little circumspect about handing it over, out there in the fading afternoon light. He compromised and slid it into a plastic bag before handing it over.
 
It felt a little weird, taking possession of a powerful hand-gun in a near empty parking lot, and you never can tell who is watching.
 
I was thinking about that in the darkness at the farm last week, which is where the whole thing started. I had completed the preps for the latest project in the current thousand, which is the installation of storm doors on the place to try to seal in a little heat.
 
I turn the heat pump off at night and cracked a window upstairs to let a little of the chill wind tickle in to make the eiderdown that much more appealing, That in turn lets in the sound of the country night, which includes the mournful sound of the whistle of the Norfolk Southern trains – successors to the Civil War-era O&A- headed toward Lynchburg and other points west.

Dogs in the middle distance. Coyotes. Other things, unknown.
 
The doors are stout enough, though a determined boot could kick the locks in quickly enough. It is the country, and there is no security beyond the mercury vapor light in the side yard, and what you can provide yourself.

I turned on the foam mattress and wondered what I would do if something untoward happened, which it does on occasions rare enough to be memorable.
 
Up North, we had the local dogs run down a deer and savage it, an only human intervention prevented great cruelty. Then there are the humans themselves, and I remembered the snowy night I was staying there alone and the group of drunken young men rammed a snow-bank near the cabin, and thought perhaps they might occupy the place until morning.
 
It took a while for the State Police to sort it all out, since apparently at least one of them had a warrant on his head, but it all took an hour of increasingly tense negotiations before anyone but me was there.
 
So, listening to the train and the dogs I thought it would be nice to round out the defensive capabilities of the little house, just in case.
 
Here is where all the discussion points come together. Is it more dangerous to have a gun or not? Certainly that is the case when children are in the equation, and for years the few weapons in my possession had no ammunition and had locks on the trigger guards.
 
Absent kids or other untrained  humans in the house, a gun is northing more than a hammer, or one of the dozen other potentially deadly devices we live with.
 
None of those things- steak knives, hammers, axes, shovels, seemed to meet the need.

A military-style semi-automatic pistol has several moving parts; magazine, slide, slide release, hammer. They are manufactured in double action now, rather than single.
 
They tell you that it is unwise to keep the magazines loaded, since the pressure of the rounds in the clip, over time, will lead to weakening of the springs, and consequent jamming.
 
The answer- or at least one of them- is throw-back technology that requires no magazine, no slide and no springs. The old-fashioned wheel gun, the classic revolver that is the ultimate point-and-click device.
 
It was gunshow weekend back in Reston, and I thought I would stop by and see what was available to meet basic security needs.
 
It cost a nominal fee to get in, and the stern lady with the NRA button asked me if I had any loaded weapons on me. I assured her that I did not, and she let me pass. There was no magnetometer to confirm my assertion, but she was armed, and willing to take the chance.
 
I wandered into the great hall and was immediately daunted. There are dealers in virtually everything. Antiques, edged weapons, ammunition and reloading equipment, scopes, books, body armor, tactical clothing and web gear.
 
The guns themselves, in a dizzying proliferation of rifles, shotguns, and a host of pistols or all types. Long guns, short guns, old guns and new ones. Tables full of them, thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands.
 
There is no question that the gun show is the country of the fetishist; prominently displayed were crew-served machine guns of ancient vintage, legal, with the right paperwork, and of astonishing cost.
 
For less than $30,000 I could be the proud owner of a German MG 42 of mid-1940s vintage. The sleek black metal device had a card in front of the bipod indicating it “has a proven record of reliability, durability, simplicity, ease of operation, and capable of the highest average rate of fire of any single-barreled man-portable machine gun (1,200-1,500 rounds per minute). Don’t touch.”
It was enough to put you in a reverie, no shit. I thought that amount of suppressive fire was probably more than I needed to cover the driveway and the near pasture, and walked on by.
 
The impact of the wars was clear. The military-style rifle was omnipresent, and bipod-equipped sniper rifles in very large caliber seemed to be a crowd pleaser.
 
It took a while to get used to things and get oriented to the gunshow universe. After looking ad a dozen tables of more utilitarian weapons I found Merlin and his table. He specialized in the personal defense inventory, rather than the squad assault mission, and I found exactly what I was looking for, or rather two of them, side by side: one glittering nickel and one in slightly worn service blue.
 
They were connected by a plastic coated cable that snaked long the counter, connecting a dozen or more guns.
 
I had started with an idea of what I wanted, but it was so confusing. Here was security. I picked them up and hefted them. They were substantial and full-framed. I didn’t know what they were until I picked them up and hefted them.
 
Looking at the frame, I saw these were two examples of the Smith and Wesson (S&W) factory, which I liked. There were a lot of Brazilian and Balkan guns on the tables. I was in sensory overload, and when Merlin advanced on me, a crooked smile on his round face under buzz-cut dirty blonde hair. His vast torso was wrapped in an equally large orange t-shirt that announced “Rabbit Ridge Enterprises: the place to call for all sporting needs.”
 
I was looking down the adjustable groove at the orange paint carefully placed on the back of the front blade site.
 
“You picked a classic,” said Merlin affably. “The blue one is a Model 28, also known as the Highway Patrolman. It is chambered for the .357 magnum cartridge, but of course you can feed it .38 Special ammo if you want to save some money.”

I pointed at the nickel-plated sister. “That is a Model 27,” he said. “Same gun, but the police departments didn’t want to pay for the fancy finish. The Model 28 is the budget version for the working cop.”
 
“I’ll take the budget version,” I said. I have a weakness for classic designs, I guess, an Merlin informed me that the rugged and accurate revolver was descended from a design called the Registered Magnum, introduced in 1934. It sold remarkably well, despite the high price during  the Depression, or maybe because of it.
 
“It’s a good choice,” said Merlin, clearly pleased at the prospect of a sale. “It’s not polished, but the top strap and frame rounds are bead blasted to give you a flat black look. Mechanically, it is exactly the same as the fancier Model 27. They stopped making them in 1986.”
 
He unlocked the cable and handed me a clip-board to start filling in the information that Virginia requires. I produced the purchase process, which included a requirement for two forms of identification, one with a picture, and both positively stating my address in the Old Dominion.
 
“It’s a pain,” said Merlin, “but then I have to enter you into the computer for the State Patrol to validate you don’t have a criminal record or other detriment to owning a handgun, or that you have not bought more than one in the last thirty days. The background check costs five bucks and is non-refundable.”
 
“Where does it say one a month in the Constitution?” I asked.
 
Merlin laughed. “Just to make the New York City Police Department happy they think we crank these things out and feed them up I-95. It is sort of funny, in a way, your Model 28 was probably a uniform carry gun of the New York Highway Patrol.”
 
“So it came south to provide budget defense after an active career up North. That’s funny.”
 
Merlin poked my personal information into the system and in only a minute or so the initial report came back: “Delayed.”
 
Merlin looked up. “They are running hours behind, so you might not get approved by the end of the day.”
 
“So, what about this gun show loophole I keep hearing about?”
 
“Oh, that. It is just licensed dealers who have to do all this. You can sell to whoever you want.”
 
“So if some guy was selling Model 28s out in the parking lot, he wouldn’t have to do any of this?”
 
“Not any more than if you were selling it from your house to another citizen. It isn’t a loop-hole, It’s your right. The people just come here to do it to save the advertising. You can see them wandering around carrying guns with price-tags on them.”
 
I waited for about an hour, and watched Merlin turn away a couple anxious looking men of color who could not provide the proper identification, and hand back the identification of two irate white men who were tired of waiting.
 
I looked at my watch, and the sun was going down. I got Merlin’s attention and told him I would just pay for the gun now and he could worry about getting it to me when the State cops figured out I was OK.
 
“You are OK, pal,” he said. “I figure I must have lost thirty or more sales because Richmond has slashed the budget and there is no one there to process the requests. He ran my credit card, and the Visa people were happy to process it on the spot.
 
“So that is how it is going to happen, the gun control thing? Budget cuts?”
 
“Nah, I think they will leave guns just the way they are.  They won’t come at it head on. They have de facto registration already with all the paperwork you filled out. I’ve had the BATF come back years after a sale to ask questions, and the papers are supposed to be destroyed and not archived, but go figure.”
 
“You will call when the paperwork is approved?”
 
“You bet. My store is five hours down state, so I will just meet you here in the parking lot here. We both know where it is.”
 
“Sounds good. I’ll see you later this week,” I said, turning to go.
 
Merlin called after me: “Remember, the Constitution didn’t say anything about ammo.”
 
I thanked him, and assuming I would get approved eventually, picked up a hundred rounds at a pretty good discount from a guy on the way out into  the gathering darkness.
 

Copyright 2009 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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