Being a reclusive genius and a rather lackluster member of a local law enforcement agency with a nice pension and lots of overtime hours, Tenis has accumulated an underground range that may have well been dreamed up by some 9th grade farm kid. Aside from pillaged blocks of ballistic gelatin and your standard assortment of targets featuring menacing looking bad guys or ominous looking sillhuettes, he also has a small pile of neat and interesting things to shoot. Old toasters. A betamax VCR. Some sort of home stereo component. A guest could shoot whatever she wanted that didn’t smell or drip so long as she used the strategically located broom and snowshovel to sequester the mess into a 75 gallon Portland Trash and Recycling can.

Being the conscious earth lover I am, I selected a trio of outdated Qwest yellow pages from the heap on the far wall and duct taped them together with a cumberbund of packing tape. After all: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. We all must do our part to better the world. Blue Heron Pulp would love the fact I did some pre-emptory shredding of these notoriously hard to digest yellow pages. I then lowered the DON’T FIRE plates in front of the lane and headed out 15′ to set up my target on a well abused sawhorse draped with sand saddlebags. I returned back with glee in my heart for the maiden voyage that was about to be.

I put a pair of foamy plugs in my ears, a pair of muffs around my noggin and a pair of yellowed shooting specs over my eyes. After all, safety is of the utmost importance for any act of recycling. Then I clicked on the range lights, raised the DON’T FIRE plates, and point shot out a quick double tap.

The yellow page bundle danced respectfully, but when I went to arrest its merriment with a third shot, I pulled the hammer and nothing happened. In proper Charlton Heston form, I took my finger off the trigger and kept the barrel pointed downrange for 45 seconds before it was certain there had been no misfire. I then tried to eject the magazine but to no avail. It was wedged tighter than an American president in a guerilla war. Keeping the weapon pointed in a safe direction I worked the slide only to realize that of all my dear little pistol’s virtues, I had overlooked her lack of a slide stop. Slide stops, like a good sense of humor in a lover, are imperative when it comes time to correct an error or omission. And just as my sarcastic self loves a good dark humor looming over my lover, so do I love a slide stop when it comes time to blow off a few thousand rounds of corrosive subgrade surplus ammo from the Eastern Bloc. Missing that intricate little nob of steal that opens up healing space for the clearing of a jam, I racked the slide a few more times before realizing that the dimunitive little tweaker gun had failed to eject the spent casing which was being lodged in by another anxious Federal hollow point. By pushing down on the top magazine cartridge with one thumb while precariously holding the slide open with an improvised Bruce Lee grip, I managed to push the mag free and eject the spent casing with a final pull of the slide.

Damn. Two rounds through the gun and I’d already hung up. Things made in Florida, like Intratecs in the 1980s and elections in 2000, had a tendency to bungle. In fact, this wasn’t my first Kel Tec adventure.

A few years ago I bought a P11 off a Jackson County cop who had carried it every day for a year and a half. He put somewhere in the vicinity of 2,000 rounds of +P cop rounds through it and gave it to me for a pittance. I carried it for two years and put another 2,500 rounds through it without a problem so long as the gun was clean. But boy, get a little dirt in those babies (at least the early serial numbered ones) and you’d better be quick at clearing empties ‘cuz they sure as heck won’t eject ‘em. Realizing that I was too busy or slack to spitshine my guns every other day, the P11 got hawked on Craigslist for $150 before the nerds who watch for gun posts to report could even hit “flag” with their soft little fingers.

But that was then, this is now and needless to say, I was a bit miffed by the whole deal. I squeezed off another round and the same jam occurred. And again. And again. And again until all 7 rounds had been used. I ain’t super quick at math, but that little hipster cannon misfired 85% of the time. Who knew, maybe it was the rounds? A small polish issue? In any event, having had some contact with the Kel Tec folks back in the days of the P11, I knew them have top notch customer service and didn’t worry about it much as I picked apart my 100% post-consumer carnage. The little rounds didn’t expand, but tumbled their way through the front phonebook before coming to rest between the “Attorney” and “Dentist” sections of the second. Though a couple of old phone books are anything but a reliable indicator of wound channels and other such ballistic divining, it sure is nice to see what your rounds do inside of something else. In this case, at 15′, they put pinky to middle finger-sized holes in dense, heavy targets. The little .380 Auto cartridge suddenly seemed more than sufficient for my urban needs.

In a strange twist of irony, I was best armed when I lived on the Cascade Crest where there was almost no crime and if there was, your well-armed and always resourceful neighbors tended to take care of it without ever picking up a phone. But here I was living in one of the most violent, crime-ridden blocks in the entire region and at the same time was in a social and cultural environment that precluded the daily carry of most any combat handguns.

There have been more than half a dozen shootings here since the beginning of the new year. The shootings are so numerous and police response so lackluster, it’s almost funny. In fact, after each new shooting we’ve started placing wagers on how long it’ll take for the Portland Police Bureau cars to respond, if they even do.

Gunshots sound much more distinct in an innercity environment than they do in the woods or at the range. Ask anyone who’s ever listened and would know the difference. It’s as though the acoustics of all the houses and buildings filter all the background noise and echoes out so you get a very clear ear on what’s happening. A couple weeks ago at 1:41 AM (I know because you gotta start the clock for timing the police response) someone opened up with a small center-fire pistol up on Jessup. The person they were aiming at apparently wasn’t happy with their role as target and returned fire with a much larger handgun that made my 80 year old windows rattle.

Usually crip on crip or crip on blood drive bys are something of a one-sided conversation so we were a bit impressed at the dialogue taking place a block away, though not impressed enough to look out the window. After 30 or so rounds were fired, tires screeched in the distance and our street returned to the gentrified silence it maintains most of the time. At 2:23 AM the police responded with a cursory drive by of their own. No lights or stopping though I swear they almost slowed down. I lost $5. Next time I know not to bet on PPB taking a multi-party gun battle as an investigatory priority…

Even though the gangsters more or less keep their bullets to themselves, shootings without a safe backstop are a bit disconcerting in and of themselves. I feel like 50 Cent should do an NRA public safety announcement for the thugs reminding them to know their target and what’s beyond, treat every gat as though it is loaded, and to keep their finger off the trigger until they’re ready to fire. It might help make drive bys safer for all of us. But crips and bloods who lack proper gun safety aren’t the biggest of the worries. It’s the crackheads.

I don’t know what happened in the crack supply in the last couple of years, but these sure ain’t your momma’s crackheads. Back when I was a lad, crackheads were quirky, often entertaining and mostly harmless; sorta like hobos were back in the 30s. They’d pace up and down the block looking for anything not tied down and had a strange habit, not unlike those bastards downtown who fund raise for Mercy Corps and the Sierra Club, of acting like you are their long lost best friend and getting all up in your business before hitting you up for money. But that was then and this is now and I have suddenly assumed that horrible old man habit of prefacing every sentence with “When I was your age…”

But like I was saying, when I was your age, crackheads were a docile, not horrible lot of sad folks. Now, well, things have progressed. In December the hipsters five houses down were jacked by crackheads in their own house and held on a ledge at knifepoint while the ‘heads stole everything of value except the moustache wax and Journey records. Last Fall, homeboy from the Florida Room was walking home on Killingsworth at about 3am when that crackhead lady with the crewcut (if you’re from the ’217 you know her; she practically lives on the Corner of Mississippi and Kill) said, “Hey, can you help me a second?”

Being the good-natured lad he is (you’d have to be if you were willing to help anyone after helping two thousand people at the bar earlier that night), he obliged. As they rounded the corner at Meskel Market, she blasts him in the face with pepper spray and two dudes jump out from behind the Iowan Punk House and beat him unconscious with some sort of blunt objects. He’s left cold in the alley while they run off to do that little magic trick where you turn $200 of hard earned tip money into little white rocks. To not only plan but execute such a complex and violent conspiracy with three different perps shows that today’s crackheads are a much more advanced species than those we knew and loved back in the day. After witnessing such spectacular adaptation, how can anyone deny that evolution is not only a scientific fact but happening as we speak???

Needless to say, it suddenly dawns on me that while I’ll carry most every day, the times I don’t carry, say when I’m going to a show or on a hot date, are the times I’m most likely to actually need it. Kinda a reverse Murphy’s Law kinda joint. The fact of the matter is that it is hard as hell to integrate a handgun, much less a more substantial one, into any fashionable ensemble you’d want to wear in such a pretentious town as Portland.
Fashion vs function vs firepower vs fun? A harsh debate with an even harsher answer. Thus we come to the long delayed purchase of a mouse gun.

Now before you get all John Wayne on me and accuse me of selling out to the emasculated soul of liberal America, I am from the old school of not carrying any caliber that doesn’t begin with the number four. Like those old salts who write the advice columns in Gun mags, I gotta agree that handgun rounds were born and died with the .45ACP cartridge. I mean sure, if a guy’s in a pinch, .40s&Ws will still do the job (and probably have superior ballistics), but they still don’t have the same whollop as their 200-odd grain big sisters. There’s just something about putting thumb sized holes through things with run of the mill FMJ ammo (or fist sized holes with the right handloads).

But unlike all the crusty old gun-mag guys, I like to go out at night. I like to go see music and cozy up with cute people at fun bars and go to the occasional seedy discoteque. Needless to say, fanny packs don’t belong any of these aforementioned places and a big ol’ pistol pokin’ out of your pants ain’t gonna make you any friends. Even the dimunitive Smith and Wesson airweight .38 doesn’t carry well on my skinny little frame wearing anything at all fashionable. The verdict was in. I needed a gun that could ride in the front pocket of tight Levis 501s or in the waistband of thin-cut modish suits from the 50s and 60s without leaving that telltale bulge every discreet CHL holder should strive to avoid.

Being a good consumer, I didn’t run on down to Keith’s Sporting Goods (which is really a misnomer since ol’ Keith literally has nothing but guns and ammo) and waste a counterguy’s perfectly good day by tire kicking two dozen pistols while I tried to find something that would fit my needs without offending my masculinity in the eyes of the übermacho gun dudes. No sir. I researched a different way.

First I called the Old Man. He’s a cool old bastard. Hard as nails, but really sweet to those he loves. He’s also been into some questionable stuff for a good number of years which makes him a convincing source of info on all things self defense related. Afterall, he’s the kinda guy who’s been carrying for 50 years in a state with no CHL law and who literally has guns stashed in every nook and cranny in his home, office and truck. He says, “You know what you need? A .357 snub nose. A .40 Glock subcompact. What? Something smaller? You are a skinny thing. Whatcha need is one of them whore guns.”

“A whore gun?”

“Yeah, somethin’ a whore could stick up under her bra. Like one of them Kel Tec .32s. I’ve got one and it’s definitely the one for what ya need. It was the only gun I could smuggle into the hospital when I had my bypass surgery. If I could carry it in one of those open-assed paper gowns without the nurses noticing while they wiped my ass, you can hide one on your skinny little self.”

Now I’m biologically skeptical of trends and I remember when Kel Tec, our fave domestic gunmaker, followed Seacamp out into the world with their tiny little P32s. The gun world was so smitten with the skinny little things that shot tiny little bullets it was all I could do not to gag. Instead, I went out and like a good rebel, bought a Super Redhawk in .44 mag.

Needless to say, like suddenly admitting that Ricky Martin really was quite talented, after talking to the Old Man, I found myself sucking up my pride and checking out these new fangled whore-guns on the inter-web. As fate would have it, I wouldn’t have to suck up my pride too much. Kel Tec had allowed their little P32 to hit puberty and blossom into the P3At chambered for the slightly less trendy .380 Auto cartridge. Hell, .380 Auto is practically 9mm. Or at least one that stunted its growth by drinking too much coffee when it was young. So that was an option, especially when I knew they were goin’ for around $200 new.

After sifting through the usual maelstrom of lies, bullshit and misinformation we call the internet, I came up with a few other options and decided to let the available stock at a gun show decide for me.

I handled a few dozen handguns in the Expo Center before stumbling on Keith’s booth which had a new P3At for $250 out the door. I walked back to another dealer to check out the Kahr I’d had my eye on, but at almost double the price and with a substantially larger profile, such a choice would be hard to justify. Five minutes waiting for the background check to be complete and I was on my way back to the train with a new Kel Tec and two boxes of hollowpoints in my pocket. Thus began the saga of the Kel Tec…