Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/812511
150 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S My all-time favorite was a discourteous man who pushed his way down the crowded aisle and then bullied his way up to my table, dragging a petite little distraction with him. Breaking into my presentation of a proper English bird gun without so much as an excuse me, he blurted, "Got any of them Leopold scopes with a tapered rectum?" "Nope," I shot right back. "They're pretty hard to locate, too, but you might find one if you ask some of the other dealers." I've always found perverse enjoyment in listening to know-it-alls mispronounce words, as it betrays their true colors. Optics seem to get the worst of it. It is often Leo- pold, rather than Leupold, or Swarski, which I assume is the Polish version of Swarovski. Firearms suffer as well. There's Kimberly, the famous maker of 9-11 pistols and my long-time employer; Mossbert and Ka-sil as opposed to Casull; and finally Trim Bill, which is not a skinny guy's nickname but a perversion of Turnbull. If nothing else, gun shows should have taught us that social media was a bad idea. Unless one turns a deaf ear to all the unfounded chatter, there is more misinformation and dumb-ass speculation found in those aisles and passed over those tables than anywhere else other than a Chicago sports bar. It is the "heard mentality"—as in "I heard . . . " "I heard that the SuperBlaster gun company is really anti-gun." "I heard that $100 from the sale of every one of those pistols goes to Brady." "I heard that the anti-gunners are buying up all the (insert reloading component) because they can't get any laws passed to directly limit guns." "I heard that X is going bankrupt, Y is taking over Z, or that Bill Bigshot is buying up gun manufacturers to put them out of business." For all the bluster one is sure to find at a gun show, I'm still hooked. It's been 30 years, but I'll keep going and continue to hope that a once-in-forever deal might come waltzing down the aisle. Until it does, I'll just sit behind my tables, smile at the right time, and treat everyone with courtesy. It's a great way to spend a weekend. n Editor's Note: Copies of the author's first book, Born A Hunter, are available at www.sportingclassicsstore.com. rusty. A polite woman crowded up to him and, after tapping him on the shoulder to gain his attention, asked him for two dollars. I assumed she was his wife, or that this might be the deal of the century. "What for?" he grumbled, thereby taking the words right out of my mouth. "Muffin tins." "Muffin tins? At a gun show?" Then, in a grand display of aggravation, he fished a roll of rubber-banded bills from his overalls, licked his thumb, and begrudgingly peeled off two singles. The little missus received them with great appreciation and scampered away to secure her prize. I'm not sure which surprised me more, the idea that a wife would have to ask her husband for two dollars or that someone would actually bring muffin tins to a gun show. Anyway, negotiations with this patron finally stalled a few dollars apart, then he offered to flip me for the difference, double or nothing. I then allowed how I was no longer interested in selling this particular item or anything I might ever own to him or any of his heirs. He seemed to take offense, so I tried to patch things up by suggesting that he enjoy his muffins. Since then, I've never allowed anything that approaches junk to take up residence on my tables. Unless it's worth at least a fiver, forget it. My favorite thing about gun shows are the guys who try to impress whomever happens to be wondering the aisles with their extraordinary knowledge of firearms and related accessories. Several years ago a fellow sidled up to my table to handle a custom 1911 .45 ACP. I was in discussions with another customer, but I did manage to assure the man that I'd be with him shortly. As he waited I noticed he was pointing out features of the pistol to what appeared to be his very bored teenage daughter. As soon as I got around to him, I asked what he thought of the pistol. "I might be interested, but it doesn't have one of those anorexic safeties." At a loss for words, I glanced at his daughter to see her execute a very practiced eye roll. I suppose she was surprised to hear me declare that I thought all 1911s and, indeed, pistols in general would benefit from the addition of an anorexic safety. Then I suggested he could probably have one installed for about $75. Whether out of genuine desire or with genuine appreciation for the face-saving, he bought the pistol. The sharpest of the lot mastheaded themselves behind tables showcasing their finest treasures, without a description or price tag in sight. If you slowed to glance, some would actually acknowledge your presence with a grunt. If a question was dared, they would first eyeball you like a stock judge in order to estimate your gullibility, then spew a story that could fertilize a large field of corn all by itself. Of course, every speech ended with the same question: "Whaddaya give ferit?" I didn't buy or sell anything at that first show, mostly because after kicking in for gas and paying the entrance fee, my pool of available resources was reduced by half. My friend, already a man of means, actually sold a .22 rifle and bought two pistols. "I'll clear forty bucks on the day," he boastfully remarked on the way home. I was hooked. One year to the day later, I was back at the gun show. A real estate license had taken the place of a teaching certificate; I was married to a sympathetic if not understanding wife; and I had half a table of my own. The other half was split with a fatherly expert, someone who promised to show me the ropes and make sure I didn't get taken apart by those who really knew the game. I came away $35 ahead on the weekend. More importantly, I met Wayne van Zwoll, a true gentleman and genuine firearms authority, and then-NRA honcho Harlon Carter. Wayne introduced me to master gunbuilder Al Biesen and his son, Roger. Harlon shared his vision for a strong NRA in a way I'll never forget. Due to the huge financial success, I began buying used guns out of the local newspaper and had two tables of my own by the next show. Now, more than 30 years later, I work with fine firearms full time. G un shows have changed over the years. They used to be somewhat restrictive, at least to the point a dealer would have to promise in advance that only firearms and directly related items would be displayed. Being that gun show promoters are, if anything, more interested in the bottom line than even the grumpiest dealer who ever sat a table, the frequency of junk that must be navigated seems to have increased. A great example of how bad things can get happened while a customer was wrestling with me over the price of something rare and