It was one of those extended family brunch get-togethers that my cousin Larry and his wife Joan throw twice a year. They have a spacious rancher that can easily accommodate the twenty to twenty-five people who show up, people of all ages, from toddlers to seniors. We're all related, either by blood or marriage. Most of these people over the age of twenty-five are married, making me, age thirty-five, one of the few exceptions.
Nothing too "important" happens at these things. We talk, catch up on each other's lives and consume the delicious food laid out on the dining room table. It's eat, drink, be merry and talk, keeping the talk light, avoiding politics or serious personal issues.
But a few months ago, the keeping the talk light changed, at least for me. My cousin Midge brought along one of Midge's good friends. Marisa was her name. In her late twenties, she was, I learned later, a nurse. Even before we began to communicate, my eyes flickered as soon as she walked in. I tried to be discreet, to no avail, but I was in good company from the way the other guys reacted as soon as they saw this young beauty with the fine features, long brown hair, blue eyes and porcelainlike skin. She wore white jeans that hugged her legs and hips tight enough to where you didn't need a vivid imagination to see what she looked like under those jeans and the green pullover she wore.
Midge introduced us as we were making our way around the dining room table, piling food on paper plates. "Bert, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Marisa Layton. Marisa, this is Bert Cramer, Doctor Cramer, I should say. Bert, I told Marisa you'd probably be here, the oldest cousin among us still not hitched." This must be some sort of match-making effort that Midge dreamed up, I thought.
Marisa and I said hi in unison, looking into each other's eyes. It was one of those awkward moments when you wonder what should come next, if anything. Marisa made the next move. "Midge tells me you're an orthopedist. You like what you do?"
"Very much. I've got too much invested in time and money not to."
"I understand. We have something in common then. I'm a nurse. Lately, I've been working in the ER, treating all sorts of patients, including gunshot victims."
"We have way too many guns in this country," Midge cut it. Midge stood a few inches shorter than Marisa's average height. She had short, dirty blond hair worn in a pixy cut.
Marisa frowned and nodded. "Too many guns and too many patients because of too many guns."
"Too many guns in the wrong hands," I said. "Some people shouldn't be allowed within twenty miles of a firearm, much less own one."
"Well, in my opinion," Marisa said, "we have too many guns, period. These high caliber, semi-auto weapons should be banned. I've seen firsthand the damage they do."
Few of my cousins knew about my passion for guns and shooting. I owned a couple of rifles. One was a.22 lever action, the other a semi-auto 9-millimeter carbine, a gun that would surely make Marisa's ban list. My four handguns included two.22 semi-auto pistols, a.357 revolver and a 1911.45. I supported what I thought was reasonable gun control such as background checks. But banning certain guns? I thought that impinged on our Second Amendment rights. Briefly, I debated whether I should mention my gun hobby, then decided it was neither the time nor place, especially when I wanted to get to know Marisa better.
The desire, it appeared, was mutual, gleaned from eye contact, the way she locked her eyes on mine, smiling much of the time as we talked more about our careers and other things we did when not treating people. We both liked mystery novels, thriller movies, classic rock, classical music and Chinese food. I was a registered Republican, she a Democrat. "But I never let politics get in the way of friendship," she said.
"No, me either," I said. "Arguing politics is a dead-end street. Ultimately, it's a personal choice, like food and fashion."
"Well put," she said.
By this time, we were alone in Larry and Joan's cozy den, sitting on the sofa, sipping white wine, while the rest of the company milled about and talked in the other rooms. Things were starting to get personal. Marisa liked my "mysterious brown eyes" and my six-foot, "athletic build."
I told her I thought she was beautiful. "But I know I'm not the first guy who's said that."
She drew a shy smile and said, "Well, you're the only orthopedist who has. And quite a handsome one at that. Anyway, it's always nice to hear."
We drifted closer to each other while trading notes on our exercise regimens. She was a regular at Brick Bodies, while I pumped iron at the Merritt a few times a week. I felt there was major compatibility here. The awkwardness we felt upon meeting was gone, replaced by a smooth rapport. I had little doubt that we'd be trading phone numbers before we left the house.
Then my uncle Morton wandered in. Late middle-aged, bald and just under my height, he was my dad's brother, one of four boys who grew up in the city and now lived in the burbs. He wore dressy charcoal pants and an open-collar, long-sleeved blue shirt. To Marisa, he said, "If you're ever in need of an orthopedist, this guy will fix you up. He's an excellent doctor. He diagnosed a knee problem I had caused from going too hard on the tennis court that another ortho got wrong."
Marisa smiled and said, "Well then, I'll take that as a reliable endorsement." She patted me on the shoulder. "Bert, I'll consult you if I ever overdo it at Brick Bodies."
"Any time at all," I said.
Then Morton said, "So Bert, have you added any new guns to your arsenal since we last spoke?"
Oh, shit! I just remembered that my Uncle Morty was one of the few in my extended family who knew I owned firearms. I casually brought it up the last time we got together. He made no moral judgements, though guns weren't for him, he had told me.
Marisa's fun mood changed fast. "You're a gun owner?!" She slid away from me as if I had bad breath.
In a cautious tone, I said, "Ah, yeah. I shoot for recreation. It's fun and it's also a great way to relax. You look surprised."
She folded her arms against her chest. "I am surprised. And a little put off, to be honest. I mean, you're a doctor. You're in the business of healing. It seems like a contradiction to me. Look at our epidemic of mass shootings and school shootings, the daily gunplay on our city's streets and roads. As I've said, I've seen it all in the ER. All those shooting victims that would still be alive or in one piece had it not been for such easy access to guns."
My uncle drew a nervous grimace, knowing he had started something that he wished he hadn't. "Look, kids, I think it's best I leave you alone for a while," he said, then left the room.
Then Marisa asked, "Just how many guns do you own, Bert?"
I told her about the two rifles and four handguns. Then I said, "Look, I'm a responsible gun owner. Have you ever been shooting?"
She looked almost offended that I asked. "Certainly not. Well, I have a vague memory of target shooting with BB guns in summer camp. But that's it."
I was burned out arguing with liberal gun grabbers over the gun issue, so I didn't even attempt to explain Second Amendment rights, the right of the law-abiding to own guns for self-defense against criminals who always manage to get guns no matter how strict their state's gun laws. And then there's the joy, the fun, the healthy challenge of shooting. Try explaining that to an antigun person who's never done it, who will never entertain the thought.
My optimism went into the tank. Get her phone number? I expected to get slapped any second. "Marisa, I'm not sure what to say. Things were going great until my uncle wandered in here."
"Weren't you ever going to tell me?"
