Why I carry a handgun for protection, Vol.2

Flying J Truckstop, Winslow, Arizona, 2/17/08, 2:30 p.m.

I should have known not to stop here when we pulled into the parking lot and were immediately besieged by shambling derelicts looking for a handout to go buy some more booze, or narcotics, or whatever else had made them look like extras from Dawn of the Dead.

Entering the facility, I went into the restroom to take care of business. I immediately smelled something burning, and not cigarettes, either. Just then, two tweaker truck drivers exited a single restroom stall, and upon seeing me, first got guilty looks on their faces, and then, ascertaining that I was alone with them, started to look at me quite menacingly.

I exited the bathroom posthaste, and we left the truckstop very shortly thereafter.

No harm, no foul. This time. What would have happened if those two (large and high) druggie truckers had thought that I was a threat to them or their little party, and had decided to make sure that I didn't narc on them, or had gotten the idea to rob me of whatever money or valuables I had on my person? There weren't any cops, or anyone else, for that matter, around to stop them, that's for sure.

I sure felt quite a bit better knowing that I had a Springfield Armory .45 legally concealed under my T-shirt, and that I had acquired the training to use it to defend myself, if necessary.

Very fortunately, the situation didn't end badly for anyone. But it easily could have. And I was prepared to make quite sure that my wife and I weren't on the "badly ending" end.