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One of the white-haired ladies in the neighborhood accosted me with information. In the course of her investigations she had uncovered the Master List of Numbers that you can call to complain. Slow-moving, old, sometimes forgetful, she rattled off the agencies that might soon be hearing from her, displaying the youthful verve of a US Marine drill sergeant. One of the numbers was where you can call to complain about leaf blower noise, and I jokingly suggested that it would save her the trouble of having to shoot the leaf blowers, which despite the passage of an ordinance banning them, are endemic in our neighborhood.
"My son gave me a gun," she said. "It starts with an 'R'"
"A Ruger?"
"That's it."
"You should get rid of it. What good is it going to do you? Take it to the next neighborhood watch meeting and give it to the police."
"I used to practice, over at that place"
"The Beverly Hills Gun Club, over there?" I waved my hand in the general direction of Santa Monica, about four miles away, where there used to be a pistol range.
"That's the place." Then, somewhat unexpectedly... "I'm a good shot."
"Hey, how did you know I have a gun?"
"You told me."
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© Copyright 1997-2003 George D. Girton.
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