Hostile Disneyland

***The prompt: "I didn't want to go, but I went anyway." 

And so after holding onto this story for a couple of years...        

 I didn’t want to go, but I went anyway – to the gun show. It was Andrea (the writer, the curious pain my ass) that whispered in my head that I should go.

           

            Come ON- you gotta experience everything at least once. It’s always another story to write. Another place to people watch. GO!

            I hate to admit that I’m a total pushover when it comes to my creative voice. It says jump, I ask how high, etc. At times, I believe the muse within just pushes me for sick pleasure, like the gun show.

            These are the things I enjoy: dancing, food, Jazz, books, art, coffee, and film. These are the things I do not enjoy: warehouses that smell like sweat, guns, gun accessories (seriously - you want that trigger thingy mu-jig that cost over a hundred dollars so you can fire your bullets faster?), confederate apparel (it’s tacky), and my ex-boyfriend.

            All of the latter were present at the gun show ’07.

            It was held at the Del Mar Fairgrounds. However, nothing was outdoors, it was just one large warehouse housing table after table of pistols, shotguns, handguns, and even a few ninja stars. When I spotted my first pair at the third or so table, I tried to stifle my laugh. Well, no, I laughed. And then power walked quickly to the next aisle when the vendor of the ninja weapon gave me a “go fuck yourself” look.

            Charming.

            I went because I pretended to be in love with my ex-boyfriend, and his younger brother, the gun enthusiast, of the group was in his version of Disneyland: hostile, confederate, Disneyland.

             It was lovely.

            When my ex asked if I wanted to go, I knew it was more of a pity invite because he didn’t want to break our previous plans to be with each other on that Saturday afternoon.

           

            Go to the gun show with you baby? Why- how you know?!...

            I said yes.

            I said yes because of I was in fake love with my fake man because he was still a boy even though he was seven years my senior at twenty-seven. I said yes because the creative genius within my conscious, said

            “Sure, what the hell.”

           

            So I went.

           

            The most exciting event came when a Fat Bastard from the Austin Powers movie look-alike found his way towards me as he mused over semi-automatics and I snuck a picture of him on my phone. That was my story when I went home and came back to my college roommates.

           

            “How was the gun show.” (Add thick coat of sarcasm)

            “Awesome! -  I saw Fat Bastard.” (Add thick coat of faint joy)

           

            I’ll give the gun show guys some credit for having a table of jewelry and Marilyn Monroe/James Dean/ Betty Bop merchandise.

            A table.

            A girl can only walked around a single table for so long. After forty-five minutes and without a purchase, I started looking creepy and perhaps ready to steal. At least that’s the vibe I got from the Santa with suspenders sitting next to the register.

            When I found my ex and his younger brother, both smiled and asked if I bought anything. No, I responded, and put my hands in my pockets: my body language that I was ready to get the hell out of this place. It was close to mid afternoon and the strong July heat of San Diego was settling into the warehouse. The aromas of burnt hair and bad cologne were threatening to become one with the fibers of my t-shirt.

            Taking mercy on me they agreed to leave. Young bro got all his brand new dangerous toys and he was content. Ex mulled over the idea of finally buying his first gun and the whole drive back I realized that I didn’t want to go, but I went anyway.