Negotiating with a crazy person
or tomato soup & spiritual experiences
I’ve been telling this story over dinner for decades. I even tried using it as inspiration for a short film, but truth is stranger than fiction and when I changed things, the point of the story would slip away. So here you go, point intact…
And remember, find a spelling or grammatical error, win a postcard! If you do, please post it in the comments below.
Audio version: Negotiating with a Crazy Person
In my left hand was a black .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. In my right hand, a worn wooden spoon, which I was using to stir a pot of tomato soup. My physics homework waited patiently for me on the dining room table.
When the soup was done, I poured the red steaming goodness into a white Corelle bowl, placed the aging teflon pan into the sink, added soap and water, and began to clean it, one-handed.
This wasn’t the first time I'd washed dishes one-handed, but cleaning a pot this way was like chasing a mouse around a tub; inefficient and ridiculous. More importantly, it was cutting into my study time.
So, I looked at the gun in my left hand, then back at the soapy pot in the sink. Then back at the gun and again back at the pot. Should I do it? Should I put the gun down?
What happened next was some sort of spiritual experience.
I felt dizzy and disoriented. I felt myself standing above and behind myself. I was huge, like dense fog magnetized to itself, staring at the dilemma in front of me. Watching myself wonder if I should put the gun down so I can clean the pan faster. That's when a voice rattle through me. ”WHEN DID YOU BECOME UNCOMFORTABLE NOT CARRYING A GUN?!!”
That’s a great question. Let’s back up a few weeks.
In March of 1985, I was a senior at Wasilla High School in Alaska and pulling a 4.0 gpa; a drastic improvement from my 1.8 the previous year. It helps when you show up! In addition to being a senior in high school, I was also newly married. Not my idea, not his idea either, but the result of what you would call abuse of power by some Mormon officials. (They were trying to force my boyfriend to go on a mission and when he refused, we were given 2 weeks to get married.)
So our shotgun wedding, with no baby on the way, left us living in my parents' camper on the side of their house. I suppose I could’ve felt grateful we weren’t living in his VW Bug, but I was mad and hurt that we couldn’t stay in the heated three thousand square foot house I had helped my parents build the previous summer.
So it’s March, it’s Alaska and it’s bloody cold. The nighttime lows hovered around 18 degrees Fahrenheit and the camper had no heat. My parents lent us an extension cord and a heater the size of a dinner plate. We placed it by the bed and directed it at us while we slept. Despite this gift of warmth, we slept with our heads under the covers. When we’d peek out, our breath made crystals in the air. We were love birds in a frozen cage.
We’d wed on the Ides of March, yes, the same day Julius Caesar was assassinated. So, when I woke up one morning to find my shoes frozen to the inside of the camper, I felt the seriousness of our predicament in a new light. I borrowed a hammer from my dad to break the bond between my rubber soled tennis shoes and the camper floor. The temperature had dropped to 10 degrees, then the next night to 9 degrees. A few days later we’d be below zero.
Here’s where the gun story comes in.
Kit, my new husband, was almost nineteen. He worked part-time at the record store, dressed like Crocket from Miami Vice, wore an ear band, and listened to punk. But being cool wasn’t going to keep us alive. We needed to move somewhere warm. If our precious heater went out, we might not wake up in the morning.
It took a few days, but Kit got a lead on a house sitting gig.
We climbed in his red VW Beetle, which coincidentally also didn’t have heat, and we headed out of town. After thirty minutes, we turned off the snow packed main road, and drove the last few miles on a snow covered dirt road, then down a long driveway lined with thirty foot pine trees, and up to an A-Frame house. The owner, let’s call him Ray, was waiting outside the front door with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
Kit waved to him and warned me one more time, “he’s a little weird.” Ray was someone he had met through church.
We walked across the crunchy snow, shook hands and did the obligatory introductions. Ray invited us inside. His A-frame house, like many Alaskan homes in the 80’s, was half finished. Many people would frame the house and build it out as they had the money. The basement was only framed in, so I headed up the stairs.
“Don’t go up there,” said Ray, “I’m not showing you the house yet. We need to talk first.”
Ray motioned to a framed-in room off the stairwell. “Have a seat. There’s a sawhorse. Boxes. Anywhere’s fine.”
Kit and I sat side by side on the sawhorse.
Ray opened with an easy get to know you question, “How much do either of you know about government corruption?”
“I’m taking government in high school,” I said.
He laughed, “So, you’re ignorant, like every other American citizen. Ignorant of the illegal activities perpetrated by the US government. Ignorant of the corruption happening under your nose. Ignorant of the countless times every single day they break the constitution. Ignorant. You have no idea how bad it is. Our government is run by men worse than the mafia. Hell, our government runs the mafia.”
Ray delivered a brilliant fire and brimstone sermon while he searched us for some semblance that the weight of his words were sinking in. That the gravity of the situation was real and imminent. That our great country was no longer great and our values were in peril.
“They aren’t going to get away with it either,” said Ray, “people are banding together. There’s going to be a revolution. The US government is going to be overthrown.”
I raised my hand to interrupt him, “I don’t mean to be rude, this is all very interesting, but what does it have to do with us house sitting for you?”
He nodded. “I know you want to see the house, but before that, I need you to promise me something. I’ve got a top secret revolution business in the lower 48, and I need someone I can trust to guard my guns while I’m gone.”
“Guns? How many guns?” I asked.
Ray chuckled, “A LOT. I’ve been stockpiling.”
“Where are they?” I asked.
Ray motioned to the boxes around the room. There were stacks of them everywhere. “I’ve got semi-automatics, rifles, shotguns, pistols, you name it. Even got me a few illegal automatics.”
“How are we supposed to guard your guns?” I asked.
“Well, if you want to stay here, you’re gonna PROMISE ME, you will carry a loaded weapon with you at all times. That way you can scare the asshole that tries to get my guns,” Ray said with finality.
“Well, I don’t know how to use a gun,” I said.
“That’s okay,” Ray said, “you don’t have to know how to shoot a gun to scare somebody. Look here,” Ray picked up his rifle and pointed it at my chest, “if I point this gun at you, and told you to get out of my God damn house, I’d bet the farm you’d run out.”
I stopped breathing. Kit froze.
“Oh hell, I’m just making a point,” said Ray, putting his rifle back at his side. “You don’t have to know nothin about a gun to scare the living daylights outta someone.”
“I don’t want to shoot anyone,” I said, “I’m a pacifist.”
“You don’t have to shoot anybody. You just have to scare them away,” said Ray.
I wanted a warm place to stay, but this was crazy. I looked at Kit. He didn’t seem to know what to say either, so he shrugged.
I turned back to Ray and said something interesting. Not interesting in itself, but interesting because it marks the first time I began negotiating with a crazy person. I said, “I don’t want to carry it all the time. Is it okay if I hide a gun near the door and another upstairs? If I hear anyone I’ll be able to grab it quickly.”
“No way, no sir, no ma’am,” said Ray, “why do you think I need you to promise?!! I need your solemn word. I’m trusting you kids with more than you realize. That’s why I’m looking at you. I gotta see if you’re the kind of person who’ll keep a promise. Are you? Do you keep your promises?”
I nod, “I do.” Kit added his, “I do.” and the vows we took on March 15th felt hauntingly close.
“Well, you can use a holster if you want,” said Ray, “I have a few extra. But you have to have a gun with you at all times. And that’s not a bad idea anyway. You’re a really pretty young girl. I hate to think of what might happen to you if some bad man came knocking around this house. You’ll need a gun to protect yourself.”
Ray saw us hesitate, “Why don’t you two talk it over outside for a few minutes.”
It was dusk when Kit and I walked across the snow to his red Beetle. When we were out of earshot I whispered, “That dude isn’t weird. He’s crazy.”
Kit nodded, “Yeah. But we should take the job. It’s a warm house.”
“We haven’t even seen the house!” I said, “I’m a pacifist. I don’t like guns. And he’s crazy.”
“You’re forgetting something very important. He won’t be here. He’ll be far away. And we won’t have to live in a freezing camper. This’ll be warm. You can do homework in a warm living room. We can eat in a warm house,” Kit said.
We walked back inside, raised our left hand, put our right on the Bible and promised to carry a loaded weapon at all times in Ray’s house. Following our solemn promise, Ray gave us a tour of the finished upstairs. It smelled old: old carpet, old furniture, but remarkable in one aspect. It was warm and we moved in the next day.
The Colt 45
After school, on the first night, I had a choice to make. Which gun was I going to carry? The 9mm Beretta was standard with 80’s action movie gunslingers, but I preferred the Colt 45. I liked the look of it, the weight of it and I liked the sound of the clip when it locked. I tried the holster but it was awkward and uncomfortable. In the end, I decided to just carry the damn thing.
A few days later, while walking up the stairs with a gun in my hand, it occurred to me I should learn how to shoot it. You know, in case some random bad guys break in to raid the stockpile. After all, we were in the Alaskan wilderness. There wasn’t a person within earshot or eyesight. A gun might be needed.
Kit taught me to shoot by hitting cans off a tree stump in the desolate, snow covered acreage outside Ray’s house. The effects of constantly carrying a gun worked quickly. Even though I’m a pacifist, holding the gun began to bring me comfort. Especially when the sun fell below the horizon before I got home from school and I still had hours to be alone before Kit got home.
Two weeks into our gig, I shifted gears. I moved beyond feeling comforted by the gun and began to feel like a badass. I’d shoot bottles and pop cans off the snowy tree stump every chance I had. I began to like the weight of the gun in my hand. More importantly, I didn't like putting it down.
Around this time, my mom showed up. I greeted her at the door with a gun in my hand, obviously, and motioned for her to go upstairs where there was a living room where we could chat. She brought me cookies. She sat on the couch. I set my gun down and sat in a chair. She was concerned about me. She even said we could move back home.
“And live in the house?” I asked.
“No, but your dad and I talked about it and you can stay in the camper at least until you graduate,” she said.
I laughed, “why would I do that when I have a warm house to live in?” I declined her offer, thanked her for the cookies and told her she didn’t need to worry about me. Carrying a loaded weapon was merely a job requirement.
Fast forward to the tomato soup and my spiritual experience.
I set down the gun and stepped back. I was stunned at its power over me. I felt nauseated and dizzy. I trembled as I washed, rinsed and set the pan to dry. I moved away from the gun, sat at the table, ate my soup in a haze and couldn’t study.
How could this have happened? I am a pacifist. Now, I’m afraid to walk around the house without a gun in my hand? The dichotomy jarred me. Three weeks. Three short weeks. Three warm weeks. Three quiet, uneventful weeks. Three weeks of carrying a loaded weapon. Three weeks of letting the weight of the gun add to the weight of my arm and normalize. Three weeks of listening to every sound outside, afraid of what it might be. Three weeks of thinking about the gun. Three weeks of trying different places to store it at night so I could get at it rapidly. Three weeks worrying about the people who might come steal the guns. Three weeks imagining pulling a gun on someone and telling them to get out or I’d shoot them. Three weeks of hyperawareness. Three weeks of warmth. Three weeks of doing things one handed. Three weeks. Three tiny weeks. Three endless weeks. Three weeks to turn from pacifist into a girl afraid to put down a gun to wash a pan in an empty house.
I called my mom and asked if my parents invitation to stay in the camper was still open. Mercifully, it was. It was also mid April and the snow would be gone in a few weeks. Kit and I moved back into the camper. I finished high school, miraculously graduated with honors, and we moved on to the next crazy house sitting experience.
On reflection:
There’s probably a lot of things that could be said about this story, but here’s the gem, or the lesson.
For years, I thought ‘Ray’s crazy’ was the problem. I thought his fear was like an infection, and simply being around him and his guns made me crazy too. I thought Fear is Contagious. At some level that’s true, but if I dig deeper and look at the moment when I started negotiating with Ray, something interesting pops up.
You see, when I said, I don’t want to carry a gun, so can I instead…, what I placed on the table to negotiate with were my morals and values. What’s the problem with that? The problems is I became willing to give up pieces of myself to get what I thought I needed.
When the stakes are high enough, and you give up part of yourself, the transition to someone you don’t recognize is pretty quick.
Sure, living in a freezing camper might have become life threatening. But living with a stockpile of guns for some unforeseen revolution was definitely more dangerous.
In retrospect, I feel extremely lucky to have escaped that experience with only a story. But as for learning to negotiate without putting my morals and values on the line - that took a bit longer than three weeks.
Great story and great lesson!