The One That Almost Went Bad, Really Bad

The phrase "Gun To My Head" took on a whole new meaning.

Danny* pointed his pistol straight at me. “See my gun,” he said, smiling.

It was an inch from my nose. Yeah, I saw it.

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I didn’t take jobs in dangerous neighborhoods. “Plenty of business right here,” my husband, Bob, often reminded me as we ran our small business from our suburban home. “No need to drive 30 minutes only to get mugged.”

I agreed, mostly. The phone rang constantly with potential clients seeking help downsizing. I could be choosy. If a caller was more than fifteen minutes away, I declined. But calls, ones that sometimes tweaked my sympathies, did come from downtown Indianapolis, from the streets where the morning news squawked about daily shootings. I turned these callers down but hated doing so; My heart is that of a helper.

Just such a call came one day from a private-practice senior care manager. “I bet you don’t work downtown, but I have a poor guy who needs you!” she said. “His name is Danny. He needs to move to Assisted Living. Everything he owns is pretty cruddy and he basically lives in a condemned building. The family wants you to pick out new furniture, clothes and bedding then get him set up in his new place. He’ll want to bring a few personal things, but that’s it.” She then explained a few complexities: Danny is mildly mentally retarded, almost 70 and has early-stage dementia.

I was in! Client projects like this were simple but rewarding as they entailed little packing and moving, just mostly shopping and setting up a safe new space. I had one problem though. Bob would absolutely not want me to meet a client in a ramshackle building on a downtown street that’s always on the morning news!

Conveniently for me, my husband was out of town. While he fished and sipped bourbon with his buddies, my quick trip to downtown Indianapolis would be no big deal, right? What could go wrong?

The next morning when I pulled up to Danny’s beleaguered building my mouth hung open. How could a landlord charge rent for such a place? Windows were boarded up, the roof was nearly shingle-free and the fire escape hung from what looked like one last stubborn bolt. It was hell. Danny had lived in this same second floor apartment for 40 years. A surly pit bull, chained in the grassless yard next door, eyeballed me as I walked to the door. I hesitated.

Maybe Bob was right. Maybe this was a bad idea.

But Danny deserved a safe home, one that is well-kept. I’m going in, I decided.

Danny met me at the door. With his pale blue eyes and a face full of freckles, he and I could be family. His clothes, khakis and a flannel, were patchy thin and in need of a long visit to the laundromat. But he was sweet. And he was excited to learn he was getting a new bed. “Mine’s pretty lumpy. It’s as old as me,” Danny said.

I explained that all he and I needed to do was choose the mementos he’d like to bring. Did he have some family photographs? Favorite knick-knacks?

“I have something,” Danny said, walking into his tiny bedroom. I followed. He opened the creaky closet door and reached up to the shelf above a rack of ratty flannels.

“See my gun?” Danny turned, raised his arm and pointed a pistol right at my nose. His eyes, the color of the sky before the sun’s fully up, crinkled in the corners. He was smiling. There was no trace of malice, but the gun was so close to my face it made me cross-eyed.

All I thought was “If this guy shoots me, Bob will kill me. And I won’t get to teach my grandchildren how to ski.”

I don’t know how many seconds ticked by, but it must have been a few. After my initial thoughts of marital discord and downhill runs, my brain clicked into a more useful mode.

My sister, Terry.

She’s a major crimes investigator for a big-city police department. Before that, she worked undercover in Narcotics. Braver than me. Cooler under pressure than me.

What would Terry do?

Sweat ran down between my shoulder blades.

Terry wouldn’t sweat. She wouldn’t panic. She’d diffuse the situation.

“Danny, I do see your gun,” I said, keeping my voice light but thankfully not squeaky. No panic here, Danny. “Can you put it on the bed? I’d love to see it better.”

“Sure,” he said as matter-of-factly as if I asked him if he liked pancakes. Danny dropped the gun on the old-as-he-was bed.

“Do you have a safe for the gun?” I asked, again keeping it light. I might as well asked if he liked syrup on those pancakes.

“Yep,” he said, again reaching in the closet. I froze. Please, dear Lord, let there be a safe and not another gun up there.

He yanked out a little case, the same color as his khaki pants, and put it on the bed. “Here’s the safe,” Danny said, turning to rummage through the top of his messy dresser. “And here’s the key.”

I quickly put the gun in the safe, locked it and jammed it in my backpack. My now-shaking fingers poked the key into my jeans pocket. I lied when I said I’d bring his gun to his new place.

Danny just watched and listened, unfazed.

“Do you want to see my comic books? I want to bring them too,” he said as he pulled another box from the closet.

*Client name changed to protect his privacy.

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Epilogue:

• When Bob came home from his fishing trip, I fessed up. He wasn’t mad. He was, of course, thankful I was okay.

• The gun, it turned out, was indeed loaded. With the family’s permission, Bob sold it to a licensed gun dealer and we took the $300 proceeds off our invoice.

• My sister Terry is indeed cooler than me… in all aspects. You should taste her cooking.

• Danny loved his new apartment. “This is the nicest place I’ve lived since I was a kid,” he said.

• His sister didn’t know Danny owned a gun. When she asked him about it, Danny said a friend gave it to him for protection. “That was a rough neighborhood!” he said.