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Mug Shot

Steven Abramson

    I’ve had it. Goddamn it. I’ve had it, I thought. They just won’t stop talking about “it” – local news, the neighbors, the damn politicians, all of them.
    Just a few weeks ago Texas became the 45th State to adopt an open carry gun law, which means in short that all 826,000 people in the State with concealed license permits can now carry a pistol in plain sight. Goddamn it.
    Since its passage there has been limited discussion about the potential negative aspects of the law; the arguments that have been advanced in the National media have been that open carry is not safe or sensible. However, in most parts of the State the vast majority has silenced this argument with the general belief in the expansion of second amendment rights, and a more specific theory that more guns in more hands prevents crime.
    In my house my experience has actually been far worse. My family lives on a small farm in west Texas - a pig farm to be exact. My father runs the place. His father ran it before him. My father’s a handsome man, wears a mustache, but he’s mean as hell. In the Brady household he is judge, jury, and executioner. My mother is small and quiet. She has a subtle beauty. It’s a bit like looking at a Vermeer; when that perfect light hits his subject’s face it illuminates a world’s worth of details. Goddamn it. The old man decreed long ago, without debate, that we are a pro-gun household. Goddamn it. In our house, dinner is eaten in silence to avoid the sharing of conflicting ideas. Goddamn it. Goddamn it. Goddamn it.
    With no one making a case to change the views of the pro-gun crowd, and with no forum to discuss my own ideas, I decided to go out one morning to advance a theory of my own. I borrowed my dad’s truck, and drove three short miles into town. I parked on the main strip, and stepped into a local diner. Inside, a long counter cut across the middle of the room, and booths lined the walls. I grabbed a seat at the counter, and ordered a strawberry milkshake. Goddamn it.
    A few seats down, a pair of men were discussing “it.” One was fat and the other was tall and thin. They wore the usual attire for that part of the world: jeans and a flannel shirt. The skinny one wore a belt with a big brass buckle to hold up his pants.
    I leaned in, and interrupted their conversation.
    “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”
    The heavy-set man said, “Yes.”
    “Well,” I responded, “I’ve heard all your points – the second amendment, the right to bare arms, etc. – and I must say that I disagree.”
    The skinny guy said, “And how’s that?”
    “Can I explain?”
    He leaned in, “You’ve got thirty seconds.”
    My line of argument took much less time to articulate than that which had been allotted.
    I stood from my seat, pulled out a pistol I “borrowed” from my father earlier that morning, and shot the skinny man in the face.
    “My God,” the fat man said, “Why did you do that for?”
    “I didn’t agree with his point of view. In fact, I don’t agree with yours either. Do you have anything else you want to say?”
    He frantically shook his head “no.”
    The cops arrived 2 minutes later. By the time they reached the scene two other diners had pulled out their pistols to try to “calm” the situation. Unfortunately for the officers, they were unsure of whom to arrest due to all of the pistols on display.
    After I had turned myself in, I was handcuffed, and put in the back of a squad car. I looked out the back window as the car pulled away; the locals were shaking their heads, wondering what had just happened.
    After a few minutes of driving in silence, one of the officers asked, “What did you do that for?”
    I said, “Do you really want to know?”
    “I asked.”
    “The truth is I wanted to make a point.”
    “And what point is that?”
    “That the expansion of the second amendment will infringe on our first amendment rights. People aren’t so good with subtlety so I was forced to illustrate an extreme situation, but there are more subtle examples.”
    “Such as?”
    “I sit down in the same diner. Person X articulates a specific point. They have a gun on their person. I do not. As a result, I choose not to share a competing point of view. Better yet, take that same example, but insert alcohol and a bar.”
    “I guess I can see your point.” He then continued, referring to his partner, “We’re just lucky we don’t have to worry about that.”
    “No, I guess you don’t.”
    When we reached the station I was shown to a cell. I would describe myself in a similar way to that in the local newspaper, which published an article on the incident the following morning:
    six feet tall, wavy brown hair, brown eyes, dark black glasses, a bit of an outsider, highly intelligent, and usually seen around town wearing the same pair of beat-up Converse shoes.
    One particular detail was omitted from the article that had to do with the commission of the crime; it was reported that I had shot both men, but what was not mentioned was that they were each killed with a single round to the face. I should have known they would not publish that detail. There was also no comment from the arresting officers, just a prepared statement from the Station Chief.
    Two days later, I was arraigned on first-degree murder charges. Even though I was 16 at the time I was tried as an adult due to the nature of the crime. I pled guilty and was sentenced to 25 years to life in a state penitentiary.

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