Handgun Robert

Some of the few intrepid souls that have somehow lost their way on the internet and ended up at this remote outpost of self-indulgence have inquired about my moniker here on my blog. My one follower, where ever she is (I love you, Polar Bear), knows the story. She lived it. But for anyone else who finds themselves reading this, I hope it sheds light on the Nickname.

Two thousand six was a difficult year for me. It was when my attempts at self-destruction finally came to fruition. For several years prior, I had been descending gradually into cocaine addiction and had finally come close to the bottom. Many of my friends had tried to help me and some had eventually turned their backs on me in my decline, justly, of course, as I let my addiction take control of me and my decision making processes. This addiction, in the end, cost me much of my previous life- my home, my career, many of my possessions, and many of my friends.

It was the loss of one particular friend that very probably saved me from the fate he, himself, met first. This friend, D-Bo, was a near constant companion during my heavy drug abuse, a fellow abuser and my partner in several shady activities that supported our habits. He was also a true friend on whom I could rely and who I could trust among a group of decidedly untrustworthy people. The details of his demise will remain for another post, but his sudden death was quite a shock to me.

I held on to that lifestyle for about another month. My few remaining assets and resources dwindled to nothing. My remaining friendships were all drug related. All of my hard work and promise had been squandered for fleeting pleasure.

Finally, after too long, I woke up to my much diminished circumstances. I acknowledged that I, too, would soon be facing death as a consequence of my choices and resolved to reassert control over my life. This would require radical change, new friends, a new scene, and new opportunities. I had to get out of town, away from the wreckage of what I had done there.

Unfortunately, my options were limited. I could try to get home to my parents, they would help me; but I had no means to do so and circumstances were forcing me to make this change abruptly and immediately. I, also, was very ashamed of the circumstances in which I found myself and knew that such would break their hearts. I didn't want to do that to them. This left me with one uncertain hope. Hope, because she was one of my life-long best friends and we had been through much together, but uncertain because, during my descent into drug addiction, I had screwed Jo over hard and then blown her off. She lived near by, in a small town to which I could bum a ride; and so, off I went.

Nervously, I approached the house. No one was there, so I took up residence on its porch with my ever-present book until Jo returned. Her boyfriend, Brother, was back first and welcomed me with surprising warmth, although he and I were old friends, as well. And soon, JD arrived also, a friend from high school and beyond whom I had not seen in many years. I was very nervous about what might happen when Jo got home though, as I had no other viable options for where I'd sleep or how I'd live without her help.

Well, she arrived; and welcomed me with hospitality I didn't deserve and friendship that I much needed. We began making arrangements for me to live there, to find work, and to, later, pay back the money I'd scammed off of her.

The town, Hot Springs, as I've said, was a small place; where everyone knows everyone else, where people are kind to each other, and where doors and cars are still left unlocked, even when no one is at home. My friend's house followed this practice and several of her friends used it to their advantage (with Jo's consent) when needed by borrowing bathroom facilities or computer/internet time while the usual occupants were out.

The very next day after my arrival; Jo's friend, the Polar Bear, who lived in a city bus in a beautiful, but remote , mountian cove without running water, arrived to take a shower. I had never met the Polar Bear, but Jo had informed me she might be stopping in. Therefore her arrival was not a surprise.

It is my habit, when not otherwise occupied, to sit somewhere and read. Books are a quiet passion of mine and I almost always have one or two on my person, reading dozens every year. One of my favorite spots in Jo's house was the at the bar in the kitchen. There is good light, the stools are comfortable, and the bar's elevation makes it ideal for resting a book while reading. It was in these circumstances the Polar Bear found me upon her arrival.

By coincidence, an incident several nights earlier had caused Brother's very authentic looking, mock .45cal BB pistol to be left on this same bar. No thought was involved in its arrangement, but it rested on the bar seemingly near-at-my-hand and accessible. I might add that, while I anticipated the Polar Bear's arrival, she had no opportunity to expect me.

When she came in the door, I could tell immediately she was taken aback. I tried my best to be reassuring, but I am not always very skilled at portraying warmth. I fear I must have failed, because the Polar Bear almost immediately left, surprising me that I got no real chance to greet her or get to know her, with whom I certainly expected to become friends by nature of her friendship with Jo and by the circumstances of Hot Springs itself. What I did not realize, though, was that my attempts at ingratiating myself to the Polar Bear were severely undermined by her perception that I had a pistol sitting ready within reach and the implications we all feel when meeting such a stranger alone.

She immediately went down to the Pub, the center of Hot Springs social life at the time, and reported her encounter, possibly causing a stir among the locals who were, likewise, troubled by the presence of a gun-toting stranger in their friend's house; until Mae, another good friend in the town, realized it must be me and tried to set things straight.

Obviously, the situation was resolved and the Polar Bear and I became very good friends. The Handgun Robert sobriquet comes from her husband, the Dodger, who enjoyed giving out nicknames and supplied this one in memory of the incident. It was in order to follow their blog that I set this one up and so the name seemed appropriate. The Dodger has since passed and I keep it in his memory.