So anyway, back to my story...
When I last left you, I was headed to the store to buy my first gun.
I had never looked into it before, but a quick check on my iphone revealed a nice shop close by - West Coast Armory.
I headed down and was greeted by a small store chock full of weapons. Lots of pistols. Lots of what at the time I would have referred to as "assault weapons" on the wall.
The staff was a bit off-putting at first - I think more because I was in over my head than anything - but I managed to talk to him. I confessed I was bit out of my league and he pushed me towards a 9mm taurus something or other. It wasn't very big, but it was a double stack and felt thick and a bit unwieldy. I asked to see the Bersa Thunder .380 and it felt just right (with appologies to the thee bears). It fit my hand (I'm not a particularly big guy) quite well and seemed just to be the right thing for me. And the price was right.
So I plopped my card down and signed the papers. I was told it would take a week to get approval. Not a big deal for me really, I wasn't dying to have it. I figured that if it kept crazies from guns, that was OK. And I still mostly feel that way (although I get around it now by having a concealed permit).
I'll admit to having quite a big pit in my stomach. I can certainly see why noobs feel on the outside of something (be it guns or computers or anything) but this was a deadly weapon and I was quite apprehensive. I was doing it. I'd mulled it over for years, and something was telling me to take care of it. Inspiration if you believe in that.
I was out of town for the next week, so off I went...