2.  UNINTENDED EVANGELISM
    by Joel Simon 
    Exclusive to TLE    http://www.webleyweb.com/tle/>     Issue 201

Okay, so I live and work in northern California. Now and then I try to
remember how I ended up here, but it's all just too depressing. I work in a
no-smoking, multi-ethnic office that's so gosh-darn correct a girlie tool
calendar would spontaneously combust if it were ever so foolish as to pass
through the door. I'm from Detroit, ma'am. My idea of a mixed drink is ice
in my whiskey, and my closet doesn't contain designer anything. I'm so
obviously the token angry white guy that just showing up for work regularly
is an act of social aggression.

Sure, I've made certain concessions. My 4WD is Japanese, for example. But
it's usually kinda muddy, because it actually does leave the road from time
to time. After a couple of unfortunate incidents I stopped talking about
how I spend my weekends or what I think of Mssrs. Bush and Poindexter. Too
many people just found it all so -- I don't know -- atavistic. People
gradually seem to have stopped making comments about postal workers behind
my back.

But it may be -- heh, heh -- that I'm not the only atavistic one.

A couple of months ago, I was out in the parking lot talking to my partner
when the marketing manager came out to talk to us. He's an Indian guy; a
strict vegetarian. I've been told he's a Jain. I don't know much about
Jains, but I've heard they make California vegans look like Ted Nugent. So
imagine my surprise when he wants to talk about going to a pistol range
some evening. This guy just had twin girls, no doubt with a little help
from his wife. Maybe that got his protective genes kicking into gear, I
don't know.

So anyway, I was happy to have him come along. It's always best to have
somebody to shoot with. We made a date, and I filled my field bag with a
variety of hardware and the extra pair of earmuffs I bought for my
daughter. I showed him basic stance, grip, sight picture and trigger
control with a Ruger .22, and then we moved to the lethal stuff. The guy
was an animal. He wasn't afraid of a .45. He remembered everything I told
him, picture-perfect the first time. He went out to the counter because he
wanted to see what else was available in .45. They had two Glocks: the
model 21 which is the big honkin' ugly one that's easy to shoot, and the
model 36 which is the little concealable
ugly one that's hard to shoot. The only thing I've got against Glocks is
that they're just so damn mud-ugly.

So he rents the model 36. And he shoots it like he's been doing it all his
life. Any minute I expect the guy to publicly renounce vegetarianism and
rhapsodize about the elemental beauty of gutpiles.

Two weeks later he wants to go back. This time, the office manager -- a
female Ukrainian immigrant -- wants to come with. Cool, I think. The more,
the merrier. My Indian friend tries a 9mm this time. When shooting in
public I always use bullseye targets, but he went with silhouettes. I began
to fear I was corrupting him.

Now the company vice president, a Japanese expat, wants to come along too.
We're getting quite a group.

So what's the point? Hell, I don't know; I'm just some guy banging on a
word processor. Maybe it's that the 'California, land of fruits and nuts'
stereotype isn't as widespread or as fundamental to Californians' natures
as I thought. Or maybe that's too optimistic; maybe it's significant that
all these folks are immigrants and expats and still have some sense.
Whatever the cause, a stereotype I had almost begun to cherish has proven
not entirely true. Nobody here is buying illegal battle rifles under the
table, as far as I know. But one Midwestern redneck is a little less
lonely, and one Silicon Valley office is a little less correct. That's
pretty cool.

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