Free Broken Vessels by Andre Dubus

woman or man — I have begun to carry a gun whenever I go to Boston. As much as I have thought about it, I still believe I do not carry it for myself, would not even use it to protect myself, except from death. This is not bravery; I simply don’t care if someone takes my money, and don’t particularly care if someone decides to pound me about the head and shoulders. In either case, I would not resort to a gun. There is nothing wrong with taking flight, if you are the only target. On that insomniac night in the fall of 1982 I decided I would not carry a gun to my neighborhood bar; that if I felt a need to do that, it was time to move to Canada.
    So I considered weapons. I wanted one I could keep in the trunk of the Subaru, one that I would use only to prevent or try to stop local violence. I suppose I believe that nearly always we are unprepared: we have forgotten first-aid training, we don’t know where the phone is, we are alone and weaponless and have no skills in what are strangely called the martial arts, or in boxing (an underrated skill: in a bar when I was in high school I saw a state champion high-school boxer back down four punks whose belligerence turned to obsequiousness when they heard his name; they knew his speed and power, knew their numbers only meant that he would knock four of them to the floor, rather than just one); so I also believe that many — not enough, but many — newspaper stories we read about people doing nothing while another human being is in trouble are stories not about apathy but about not knowing what to do, and the stasis of fear that accompanies that condition. I suppose I believe, too, that if you are prepared, you will not suddenly be in the midst of trouble. If you know what to do when someone has an epileptic seizure (I learned one afternoon in Haverhill, frightening on-the-job training that left me in near shock), and have in your purse or pocket a tongue depressor, then someone will suffer a seizure out of your field of vision, standing some three blocks away in a movie line. If this means I believe in luck, then it follows that I believe in bad luck more than good. The optimism in this is the belief that if you are prepared, you will not be called upon, and can go about your life in peace.
    I quickly discarded the idea of a knife. I carry one anyway, as I have in my pocket since boyhood, and for the same reason: every boy had a knife. I also carry it for the few times when I need to open a package, or slice cheese or apples outside of a house. In Marine officer candidate training, a very quick and graceful sergeant taught us to fight with knives, and to fight unarmed against one. But only after the admonishment: If anyone ever pulls a knife on you, run . Besides, drawing a knife on a pack of punks is a weak defensive measure; it is only effective if you use it very quickly and seriously and therefore dangerously: you must attack human flesh with a blade. I only wanted a defensive weapon. I discarded, too, the next object that came to mind: a baseball bat. That heavy end could cause a concussion, fracture a skull. Then I remembered the pugil stick: a round wooden pole with large cylindrical pads on both ends. We used it in the Marines to practice bayonet fighting; we wore football helmets, and learned to use the rifle and bayonet as a boxer uses his fists: jabs, crosses, uppercuts, hooks, the butt of the rifle serving as one fighting end, the bayonet as the other. So an axe handle: light wood that I could grasp at its middle, using either end on noses, mouths, jaws, and so forth, and with little danger of inflicting serious injury but with the probability of slowing down and finally taking the fight out of these bullies who do not like to fight anyway. Once I decided on the weapon I knew I would never have to use it. That Monday afternoon I bought it at a local hardware store and when the young man rang up the sale he said: “That reminds me of a movie. I