The Antisocial Socialist

GATHER ROUND CHILDREN and allow me to regale you with my tale of dubious Good Samaritanism.

I'm walking home after a long day at work, laden with my purse, backpack, full grocery bag, and a big package of toilet paper tucked under my arm, when a girl dashes past me at approximately the speed of Barry Allen. As she flees, something drops out of her pocket.

I attempt to chase after her, but see aforementioned carrying-my-own-body-weight-in-groceries. I'm not much of a runner to begin with, and far less so when I'm hauling bags. I yell, "hey you dropped something," to no avail. So I turn back. A young man close by has picked it up and is staring at it.

"It's a prescription," he says.

"Shit," I say.

"Uh. It's methadone."

"Holy shit," I say.

"Holy shit," he agrees. I look at it. It's methadone. Like, a *lot* of methadone.

What *does* one do in this situation? We can't find the girl, and her number isn't on the prescription. The pharmacy is down on Queen St., which is a long way to go with something that cops are unlikely to believe you found on the street and are trying to return. Also, neither of us are massively respectable in appearance. The guy suggests throwing it out, but I'm like, someone needs that, and your average doctor or pharmacist is not going to believe that the kid dropped it and needs a new prescription. Plus there are lots of people around who I'm sure are contemplating fishing it out of the trash and either using it themselves or selling it.

Finally a woman suggests turning it into a pharmacy a block away, so I do that. I explain the situation to the pharmacist, who at first looks at me funny, then promises to call the other pharmacy, and hopefully they have the girl's records on file.

(But, I think, what if she doesn't have a phone, or address?)

Still, I feel a little better that it may be on its way back to its rightful owner, and head home. When I spot the girl in an alley across the street, smoking a cigarette and having a panic attack. I wave my arms wildly and yell out to get her attention, and this time, thank fuck she hears me. I dash across the street and explain what happened and what I did with it. Then I took her to the pharmacy (in case the pharmacist didn't believe it was her), and she got her drugs back. And thanked me profusely. I made sure she was okay and calm and then I finally went home.

Whatever else I've fucked up lately, at least I did that.

It is important to note, however, that of the more than 2.5 million Class 3 licensed machine gun owners in America since 1937 when it became mandatory felony law, only two separate incidents of illegal foul play have been prosecuted. And amazingly enough, both violators were sworn police officers who apparently snapped.

brownfist

Something about guns—their fascinating and romantic history, mechanical and aesthetic beauty, the shooting fun, firepower, the marksmanship challenge, their unique lifesaving properties, and their mystical charisma—create one hell of an attractant. Knowing and accepting this to be true, the simple and intelligent response is to initiate a gun dialogue with family members, especially children.