I’m mowing a yard. I look up into an AR-15’s muzzle. A man is carrying it to his truck. He’s above me, pointing it at me. He doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t mean anything. He’s not thinking. He’s just behavin’ like, well, what in the world, carrying an assault rifle is just - normal. It's gun culture. His muzzle, not 10-yards from me, is pointed at me while he walks right at me.
I recently fired an AR-15 for the first time. It was fun. I liked it. I was empowered. I do not like the AR-15 pointed at me. But this narrative is, well, a narrative.
“Point it up!” He stops, squares on me, stares; his weapon pointed right down on me. I'm lookin’ up into his barrel push-mowing towards him. The bit’s in my teeth. I’m adrenalized. Aurora, CO is two days past, and it’s a good day to die.
“Point it up!” I point to the sky. “Point it up,” I yell again. I put my back to him and move and mow. Now I turn back. He's squared up on me, eyes pinning me, and he starts pointing up too, yammerin’. I don’t hear. I’m wearin’ earplugs. I don't wannah hear this close cropped red haired, van dyked, white tee-d and shorts, 5’8”, 200-lb., fat-bellied dickie-dude, stoopid-fuhkin’-mahn yammerin’. Seems I’ve offended him - - while he’s carrying his loaded 30-mag assault rifle pointing at my face. Gun culture. “Point it up,” I scream.
I mow and move; put my back to him. I’m hot and I am afraid. It’s a good day to die. I move and mow off. I write down his license plate. He drives his windows-tinted-out bobcat-paw-sticker-on-the-Chevy-1500-truck-bumper off. In a moment another car drives up in his driveway. I mow and move. A woman comes out of the house and walks her white poodle. Poodle lifts its leg and pees. Woman holding her leash smiles at me. I look at her. I ignore the smiling-she while I knock on my customer’s door. I ask Darlene about her neighbors. They’re a husband and wife, no children. She says, “They’re high school teachers.”