Building a Rifle in the Driver's Lounge

               

If you saw my last post about my broken glasses, you know my depth perception was shot. This story is proof that I probably shouldn't have been allowed out in public that day.   

 Early one January morning, I had just loaded our laundry in the washing machine, then I walked into the driver’s lounge, minding my own business and clutching my coffee like it was an emotional support animal.

A man was sitting there, putting his Christmas present together.

The “barrel” rested on a rack while he tried to attach the “butt” of a rifle.

Now, my brother used to build rifles from kits, so at first I didn’t panic. I just thought, Huh. Someone else with a hobby that requires instructions, patience, and a willingness to lose small screws.

But then I noticed… he had a woman’s nylon pulled over his head, the toe tied in a knot at the top.

Like he’d robbed a bank, or he was preparing for a heist at the local Dollar General, or maybe auditioning for a low-budget horror film called The Strangler in the Driver’s Lounge.

Just him and me. All alone. No other witnesses.

I was NOT about to confront him about the safety of building a gun in a public space.

No. Sir.

I know my limits.

I know my survival instincts.

And I know when to mind my own business.

So I found a little corner, opened my laptop, and watched him out of the corner of my eye like I was observing a dangerous animal on a nature documentary.

“Here we see the male of the species assembling what appears to be a weapon… while wearing the traditional mating nylon.”

I was trying to figure out how to get out of the room without startling him… .or make him realize I was trying to escape and have him suddenly snap. Would I just die here in the driver's lounge next to a vending machine that only takes quarters? Where was that husband of mine, Van? What was taking him so long?  

Then I noticed something odd. He put an engine where the trigger should go. Then he put the scope on, only it was really long  and it twirled.   

I finally took off my glasses to see what kind of weapon this maniac was building. It wasn’t a gun at all. It was a gas powered, remote controlled helicopter.   

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t ask a single question. But oh, I had them.