The Fun Lovin' Criminal

The Fun Lovin’ Criminal – Fun Lovin’ Criminals

‘It’s a Glock. Not the one on the left. The pink one, on the right. The left one is the fake. You can tell by the extraction mechanism, see, it’s in the wrong place.’ The bedraggled looking guy sitting next to us on the W train from South Ferry to midtown sounds pretty convincing. Of course he isn’t talking to me. He is addressing his friend, an equally frazzled looking middle aged man who is nodding slowly in agreement. They’re both terribly pale. The younger guy has that haunted, haunting look in his eyes that either indicates he’s been on the lam for weeks, maybe months, or that he really shouldn’t have taken that last line of speed this morning. Or maybe both. The gummy spit in the corners of his mouth suggests he’s been up for a while – I’m thinking 36 hours at least.

The men are discussing an ad on the train for New York City gun control. Gun control (or lack thereof) is a pretty big thing in the US. The right for citizens to carry around a weapon designed to kill is more constitutional than the right for any citizen to marry the person they love. Any idiot can buy guns and bullets at Wal-Mart. Same sex sweethearts can get married in exactly 6 out of the 50 states that unite America. Gun control laws vary by state – much like same-sex marriage laws. For example, there are few gun stores in New York; there are plenty of gun stores (preferably right next to liquor stores) in Florida. Of course, I would be surprised if there is a single state in the USA that actually denies individuals their constitutional right to carry a gun in some form or other (both Chicago and Washington, D.C. have tried to ban handgun possession altogether, but those decisions are under attack for violating the Second Amendment) – much unlike same-sex marriages. Today, you can only marry your same-sex partner in Iowa, Vermont, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Massachusetts and – since March 2010 – Washington. All other 44 US states deny their citizens that civil right – including New York.

In 2006, 30,892 people died a gun-related death in the States – that means 10.36 of every 100,000 citizens (un)intentionally died by the bullet in that year.
Let’s assume for a moment that gays and lesbians live equally spread throughout the country (which I am sure they don’t); that would mean in the same year 10.36 of every 100,000 citizens died in a shooting incident, 88,000 out of every 100,000 same-sex citizens could not get married (in 2006, gays and lesbians could not yet get married in Washington, but they could still get married in California. Thanks, Austrian Oak, for setting them straight).

Still, better to have our citizens be single than dead, New York State must have figured. And after all, the LGBT lobby is more colorful than it is powerful – it’s just not easy trying to win a battle with kindness, common sense and civil rights on your side. Either way, New York put its money on gun control rather than same-sex marriage. Problem is, now they have to face the lobby that stands to protect the freedom and right to carry a gun, the National Rifle Association (NRA). The NRA might not be as colorful as the gay and lesbian rights lobby, it is considerably more powerful – remember, these guys are all packing.

Noticeably, the former president of the NRA was Charlton Heston. Charlton Heston, the man who was continuously prancing around all hot, sweaty and shirtless in front of men in skirts in Ben Hur. The man who fell in love with a monkey in Planet of The Apes – again, running around mostly shirtless, this time in front of hairy men in leather numbers. That Charlton Heston. Not only did he have what media call a ‘turbulent gay history’ off-screen; he was a vehement advocate for civil rights in his day. And above all that, the man apparently also knew how to pull a trigger. He’s the man who told gun-control advocates, You will have my gun when you can pry it ‘from my cold, dead hands.’ How could the gay and lesbian rights lobby have let him get away? He would have turned that shit right around for them. I can see the combined NRA/GLBT slogans now: We Have A Right To Carry and Marry; Bullets Don’t Discriminate, Why Should We?; Let’s All Shoot Till Death Do Us Part! Or something like that.
But alas, Charlton Heston is cold and dead, and here we are, looking at a gun control ad on a Manhattan train.

The poster in the car depicts two guns – one real and one fake. The ad states that in New York it is illegal to paint a real gun to look like a toy, and it’s illegal to sell a toy gun that looks real. The gimmick is that the gun you think is real (a black, mean looking one) is actually not. The gun that looks like the toy is the real gun. And apparently, the real gun is a Glock.
It’s hard not to overhear the guys talk. For one, the car is empty but for seven people: the two of them, a middle aged man in a mohair suit, two handsome twenty-somethings and my friend Ilse and I. On top of that, the guys are really loud. They seem very excited to finally get a chance to share their experiences with the wonderful world of handguns with a bunch of commuting squares.

‘Man, it’s a pretty bad faker, too,’ the guy continues. ‘See that, it doesn’t even have a hammer cock.’ He tugs at his friend’s sleeve and points a trembling finger at the poster. The American flag embroidered on the friend’s sleeve wrinkles for a second, then jumps back into shape when the guy lets go.
- ‘Yeah,’ the sleeved friend says. He’s not much of a talker. He seems to be more of a silent nodder. Before he dropped out, his high school peers probably voted him something like ‘Most likely to punch people in the throat without warning.’ The strong, silent, violent type.
In fact, both guys look like they would shoot Charlton Heston in the face without hesitation if they thought he was gay – or just because. Not only do they look like they carry guns, they look like the only thing they have ever registered is 101 ways to file off a serial number.

- ‘Which one is real? Not the one you think,’ the guy parrots the ad’s slogan. ‘Stupid ad. It’s totally obvious which one is real. It’s the Glock. The one the right, see? That’s the real one. They painted it pink, see, so that it looks like a toy gun, but it’s really the real gun.’ The guy’s clenched jaw twitches. He’s jabbing his finger in the direction of the pink gun.
- ‘Yeah,’ says the sleeve.
- ‘Look, see, you see how it’s all square?’ The guy can’t sit still any longer. He leaps up to the ad and starts outlining the shape of the pink gun with his trembling finger. ‘That’s your typical Glock shape right there. See the ribs here? There’s just no other gun that looks like a Glock.’
- ‘Yeah, I know what a Glock looks like,’ says the friend, suddenly lively. ‘It’s the gun that cops use. I know what that looks like.’

Everybody in the car is silent for a second. Then the two guys start laughing like that was the best joke in the world. The sleeve quickly glances around the car to make sure everybody heard that one. They stare down the barrels of cop guns every day of the week. And laugh in the face of them. They are so badass. Are we getting all this? We are.

I’m thinking, Damn, did these guys have actual New York City policemen pull their guns on them, and live? That’s pretty awe commanding, considering how trigger happy the NYPD is. If they’re not shooting their own, they are happy to empty their Glocks on mental patients armed with skillets.
Being cornered by New York’s finest and live to tell the tale means one of three things: you are really dead; it really didn’t happen; or you are really, ridiculously badass. I glance at the guys. It’s hard to tell what category they are.

The two handsomes are exchanging looks that say, Next stop, we’re getting the hell outta here. Handsome #1 grabs Handsome #2 by the hand. They’re ready to flee. The middle aged suit tries to catch our eyes with a reassuring look – Don’t worry, everything will be alright, just stay calm. He’s ready to fight. Meanwhile, the guys get back to business.

- ‘The fake one’s a Beretta. See the way the barrel comes out a bit and it has this little nubby bit on the bottom?’ the guy lectures on.
- ‘Yeah.’
- ‘But it’s way too detailed. That’s how you can see it’s a plastic replica and not the real thing. The Glock on the other hand is already made of plastic. So it looks fake. But it isn’t.’
- ‘Yeah, I know.’

The guy continues to point out characteristics of the guns. He suddenly reminds me of my old high school geography teacher, who would trace and talk just like that, only not about guns but about economic and cultural borderlines across a map of the world he pulled from the classroom ceiling. The only thing this guys needs is a ruler.

By now we have all exchanged glances in the car. I realize that both Ilse and I are actually sitting up straight; we paying attention like we’re back in class. If there’s information to be had, we automatically tune in – badass or not. Besides, it’s good to know a little bit about guns when you live in a big city. You never know when you might need it to tell the hit man from the blank. Bring on the knowledge! The two handsomes and the suit have also recognized the educator inside the clenched jaw. And just like that, the mood in the car changes completely.

The guy notices the change. He realizes that, in order to put fear back in our model citizen hearts, he needs to step up his game. He can’t have us think he’s all teach and no do. Think!, we see him think. Think!
- ‘Yeah, and, see that little trigger safety next to the trigger? That really slows you down. You have to push that first or else you can’t pull the trigger. Man, I hate that shit.’

Everybody in the car is silent for a second. And then the five of us burst out laughing. Like that would have ever stopped Charlton Heston.