Disarm me...

            It’s a beautiful morning, even though I’m still in Texas, and sooooo much warmer than yesterday. I made it in the wee hours last night to this little tiny (especially for Texas) rest stop where trucks and cars park on either side of the one land road we all share – not my favorite set up.

I’ve cooked my breakfast, made coffee, mapquested the nearest ymca (far away), and queued up my audiobook, ready for the long haul across the rest of Texas.

            Before I can start the engine, I notice a person with fluorescent pink shoes hurrying up the sidewalk parallel with my truck but across the street. She looks like my kinda womon, family even, and just as I was thinking I wanted to meet her, she makes an abrupt 90 degree turn to cross the street several feet in front of my truck and whirls around to approach my driver’s side door.

            Turns out she is family, a white radical lesbian from Maine of all places. She talks as fast as she walks and before long, we know almost everything about each other. She’s thinking about living life on the road so we walk around my truck and I open the camper door to show her my living space.

            We spend several more minutes, standing in the street on the passenger side of the truck – the “End Violence Against Womyn & Children” side – commiserating really, about the direction our activism should take. She is frustrated, feeling she’s been banging her head against a steel reinforced concrete wall for much of her life, thinking the dents are worse on her head than the wall, looking for another direction, another mode to focus her work on.

            Deep in an intense but lovely conversation, it takes me a moment to realize we are the ones the glaring old white man from across the street is screaming at. Well, at me really. I’m momentarily distracted as I realize he is bellowing “fuck you” with the requisite hand gestures. My first instinct as usual when white men attempt to rudely interrupt is to tell them to wait their turn but before I can and turn back to Donna, I see him stick out his enormous gut, spread his feet, and drop his hands to either sides, palms, in thumbs pointing out, as if he’s a fuckin cowboy in a wild west movie. His “come & get me” stance is accompanied by a loud angry dare for me (if I’m the ‘b’ word he’s referring to) to come disarm him.

             Donna holds her ground as I attempt to respond with, again, my usual “Why are you so angry?” I mean here we are in a fuckin “right to work” state, “right to carry” and obviously “right to OPEN carry” and he’s STILL angry.

            I’m not about to end my conversation with Donna and cross the street to engage with him, although I’d love to, even though his revolver, blaring black against his long-sleeved white shirt, is poking out of his waisteband – though I use the ‘band’ loosely as he has suspenders holding up brown pants.

            “Come disarm me you fuckin ‘c’ word” he screams.

            A white woman suddenly appears from their vehicle and the first thing I notice about her is her long blond hair and figure that appears extremely fit next to his blubber. I don’t know if he’s his grown daughter or trophy wife but she adopts his glare as she orders me to mind my own business.

            Really? I wonder if she’s afraid he really will shoot me.

            “Look,” he commands still furious, his arms now wildly swinging to indicate my “End Violence Against Womyn & Children” message. His foul language & challenge for me to disarm him continues to be thrown in our direction.

            “Disarm your own damn self,” I retort while hoping like hell he’ll shoot off his prick when he attempt to use the bathroom.

His companion orders me over and over again to mind my own business so I turn my attention to her, letting her know we both know he started this. I order her to look at herself, why is she doing this, and try to appeal to her as a womon, telling her I believe she knows some part of what she – and he – are doing just isn’t right.

Donna and I continue our conversation, although the magic has dimmed. We’re both ready to hit the road, as much as I’m hoping I’ll hear him shoot himself.