A rainy day, an old man, and my first shotgun

The story of how I came across my first shotgun.....

I've wanted a shotgun since last fall. After having bought 4 guns and selling 2 in less than a year, I was an a bit of a hold. Well, my fiance approved me of one more little splurge before we buy our house and realize we have no money. All I wanted was a reliable, decent pump shotgun. No bells and whistles, it just needs to work. And used is totally fine. Right off the bat, I was looking at Remington 870s or a Mossberg. Like the rest of the world. I don't deviate much.

So, I'm at large chain sporting good store, looking through a rack of used shottys. Several Remingtons that I liked, including one b-e-a-utiful wingmaster, but I told my fiance I was aiming to keep it under $200. The wingmaster was $299. I debated. Moving down the line, I found a Mossberg 835 in nice shape which seemed promising, and rang in around $220. I'm milling and looking, when an old crotchety man with giant glasses and large hearing aids hobbles up to me. He had on an old grey coat, grey velcro shoes, and a grey plaid hat. He had a half smile as he handled the guns with swollen arthritic knuckles.

"Looking for a good shotgun?"

"Yes, sir, I am"

"I've got one I'm trying to get rid of", he tells me in a loud voice.

While sporting a kind and gentle demeanor, "Joe" as I'll call him was quite hard of hearing. With great difficulty I asked him what he had, and he informed me he had a Mossberg 835, and his gun was in "a hell of a lot better shape" than the guns in the store. He told me $175 was his price. The store had another 835 for $179, but it was in pretty beat up shape, and the action told me it was used, abused, and tired.

I informed him I was willing to look at the gun, and Joe and I headed out to his car. With great care he mounted the escalator heading down mumbling "my hunting days are long over" while I prayed he didn't fall on his face. We headed out through a light drizzle to an old grey Oldsmobile parked in a handicap space. Apparantly, this guy likes grey. Hopping in the passenger side, I was presented with a soft gun case.

Quickly, I unzipped the case, expecting to find an old, beautiful, pristine gun in the gauge of 12. I saw a flash of a corncob pump. Good sign, gotta love the ol' corncob. It took a bit of effort to follow the 4 Gun Laws in the cramped old car as I removed the gun, opened the action, and checked the chamber. Excitedly, I read the barrel to confirm my findings.....

"20 Gauge. Coast-to-Coast"

What!? I tried not to look annoyed as I said, "Sir, I believe this is a 20 gauge, and it appears its not a Mossberg".

"What!?" Joe said, tipping forward to see the gun and almost butting heads with me. Sitting back, swinging an arm, and looking a bit confused Joe blurted, "I got the wrong damn gun. That's the grandkid's gun".

"Well sir, I'm really more interested in a 12 gauge."

"I can be back in 10 minutes with the right gun" he tells me. Honestly, I sort of want to tell this guy to have a nice day and be on his way.....I kept thinking of that beautiful old Wingmaster that cost more money that I was allowed to spend. Being a bit of a sucker and bad at saying no, I agreed to wait.

Like a cop on stakeout, I waited in my car, watching in my rear view mirror for Joe to return. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. 20 minutes. Okay, 1o more minutes and I'm out of here. Really, I'm hoping he decides not to come back.

With 5 minutes to spare Joe slowly pulls back into his same parking spot, struggles out of the car, and produces a different gun case from the trunk. I tell him I'd rather look at it while standing under the open door of my SUV trunk, as its safer to handle, and he agrees. This time its the right gun. Mossberg 835. Not old and vintage, not brand new. Not mint condition, but not beat to heck.

Perfect.

However, being a bit distrusting, I'm thinking "what if thing doesn't work". Joe reads my mind and assures me "it works as well as it looks". Well, its looks about 85%. I'd like it to work 100%. He informs me he shot it last a year ago, and it hasn't even had a box of shells fed through it. Offering his phone number as proof of his confidence, I am still unsure. After all, this guy could be giving me a fake number, or fake name. I'm too polite to ask for ID though. I don't want to offend this man, just doubt him in the private recesses of my pessimistic mind.

None-the-less, I get the feeling that he doesn't prowl large sporting good stores to sell broken guns to young men. I decide to risk it on the old man.

Still, walking back to his car, I inconspicuously write down his license plate number. Just in case.

Back in his car, I write a check signing it in my usual manner: first initial followed by a big scribble. Joe eyes my check with a bit of suspicion.

"You going to sign this?"

"....I did"

"The bank going to cash it with a signature like that?"

"Well, yes....they always do. If you have any troubles, you call me and I'll make it right immediately."

Joe shakes his head with true disappointment.

"Young America", he sighs......

......I guess trust has to go both ways.

At least the serial numbers are still there.