The past isn't just prologue. It's pretext

OK, SO I TOOK MY FIREARMS OVER TO THE CREDIT UNION YESTERDAY ... wanted to get a list of all the makes, models and serial numbers notarized. (You want proof of ownership? Take THAT Mr. Fancy Pants District Attorney!) The bank manager didn't think it'd be a great idea for me to bring all the guns into the credit union, so we agreed to do the list-checking and serial number accounting out in the parking lot.
(Jeez, heavily armed credit union member packing heavy into the bank lobby...why so sensitive Mr. Credit Union Manager?)
I wondered in advance if we should call the Milwaukee Police and let them know what we were going to be doing ... Nah, I thought ... why ask for trouble? He and I schlepped out into the parking lot, dropped the back of the truck, and started opening rifle and pistol cases.
"So tell me," I asked the manager, "Is this the weirdest request you've ever had from a credit union member?"
"I gotta' say it's in my top five," he answered.
"Do you think we should call the police and let them know," I asked him?
"Nah," he said, "why ask for trouble?"
As I opened one rifle case after another, pcked up the glistening firearm inside, racked open the slide, and then showed him the model and serial number, I glanced at the tall buildings all around us and wondered if anyone was watching us handle a bunch of firearms in the back of a pickup truck, and what it must have looked like.
"Hmmm," the old lady in her window must have wondered, "Why is that nice bank manager buying firearms from that disreputable-looking person with the pickup truck?"
(Did I mention that I was slightly disreputable-looking that day, and that I drive a fire engine red pickup? No? My bad.)
Nevertheless, the manager and I made it through all 15 firearms -- rifles and pistols both -- when it happend. A Milwaukee Police Dept squad car pulled up a few feet away from us and stopped.
The police officer sat behind the wheel, sending a text message of some sort. "God," I said, "He must be calling for backup. ... I better go over and talk to him." So I walked the short distance to the cop car and stood there. He continued to text message.
Finally, he glanced up at me and seemed surprised. He rolled down the window, and said, "Can I help you?" I replied, "Uh, no ... can I help you?" What do you mean?" he asked. "Don't you have some questions for us?" I offered. "Ahh, OK ... how's it going," he asked.
"Um, no ... I, uh, I mean, aren't you here because of us?" I stammered. "Nope, I just pulled over to send a text message," the cop replied. "Why, did you call for a police officer?" Then he saw the tailgate of my pickup truck, still laden with a shiny AR-15 carbine, with red dot scope and collapsible stock. He looked back at me, raised an eyebrow, waited for me to say something.
"Officer I can explain," I stammered. "I'll bet this is going to be good," the cop replied.
I hastened to explain that I was retired military, and that I was having all my firearms listed and the list notarized, to provide proof of ownership.
"Why not do that inside?" the cop asked. Then he shook his head. "On second thought, I can see that would have created some real consternation from the other people inside. Why ask for trouble?"
Bottom Line: the cop drove away laughing hysterically. The Credit Union manager, who had stood stoically throughout it all, later admitted he had been mentally kissing his banking career goodbye. "I thought we were soooo busted," he said.
"Is this something you're going to bring up at the next branch manager meeting?" I asked. He shook his head.
"No, who'd believe it?" he replied, adding, "But I AM going to tell my grandkids about it!"