While out and about running errands, I stopped in at one of the local sporting goods places to recharge my testosterone levels, sorely depleted by buying boring domestic items. While happily moving among the display cases and racks and debating whether my wife would REALLY kill me like she promised if I made anymore unauthorized purchases I come upon the knife case and witness a blissfully unaware guy place himself in mortal danger.
This guy is standing at the case handling some of their meager supply of sharp pointy objects. He's in his early to mid thirties. Short crew cut. Obviously used to be in shape and carrying a fair bit of muscle, but also well insulated by a layer of fat and with an admirable external fuel tank (known to the underprivilaged as a "beer gut"). He is regalling the clerk with tales of the many nice knives he owns and how they put the clerks inventory to shame. He then makes a poor tactical decision and launches into a tale about how all graduates of special forces training recieve a Randall, a $2000 knife, and how it is the nicest thing he owns. The 19 year old clerk behind the counter looks suitibly impressed, and does not miss the implication of the statement.
Neither do the two other customers at the counter. 2 gentlemen, in their late fifties early sixties. Both were dressed in comfortable blue jeans, and old flannel shirts with vests. Both wore short hair and closely trimmed grey beards. One had an obviously old but clean camoflauged boonie cap on his head. They both also looked like they could take apart a car barehanded. These guys radiated the "been there, done that, bought the T shirt, and please don't make a big deal about it" aura so strong that it was palpable. And this putz at the counter is going on with his tales, blissfully unaware of their existence.
Both of the gentlemen stopped their conversation and turned to look at commando joe, visibly taking his measure. They then turned back to each other and the older of the two had the slightest of smiles and gave the barest of head shakes. They then went back to their business.
It was a moment that was somehow important to me. Here was Mr. Gung ho Gi Joe armchair commando guy (hey, he could be legit, but I doubt it) who was blissfully unaware that he was in the presence of two real warriors.
It put me in a thoughtful mood. I want to say a deep thank you to all of you who may have been there and done that in various dungheaps at the behest of Uncle Sam. Especially those of you who did your jobs so well, only to be villified by morons. Thank you for your sweat, your tears, your pain, and your blood. Thank you for the valor you displayed on behalf of those who never understood what you did or why you did it. Thank you and God bless.
This guy is standing at the case handling some of their meager supply of sharp pointy objects. He's in his early to mid thirties. Short crew cut. Obviously used to be in shape and carrying a fair bit of muscle, but also well insulated by a layer of fat and with an admirable external fuel tank (known to the underprivilaged as a "beer gut"). He is regalling the clerk with tales of the many nice knives he owns and how they put the clerks inventory to shame. He then makes a poor tactical decision and launches into a tale about how all graduates of special forces training recieve a Randall, a $2000 knife, and how it is the nicest thing he owns. The 19 year old clerk behind the counter looks suitibly impressed, and does not miss the implication of the statement.
Neither do the two other customers at the counter. 2 gentlemen, in their late fifties early sixties. Both were dressed in comfortable blue jeans, and old flannel shirts with vests. Both wore short hair and closely trimmed grey beards. One had an obviously old but clean camoflauged boonie cap on his head. They both also looked like they could take apart a car barehanded. These guys radiated the "been there, done that, bought the T shirt, and please don't make a big deal about it" aura so strong that it was palpable. And this putz at the counter is going on with his tales, blissfully unaware of their existence.
Both of the gentlemen stopped their conversation and turned to look at commando joe, visibly taking his measure. They then turned back to each other and the older of the two had the slightest of smiles and gave the barest of head shakes. They then went back to their business.
It was a moment that was somehow important to me. Here was Mr. Gung ho Gi Joe armchair commando guy (hey, he could be legit, but I doubt it) who was blissfully unaware that he was in the presence of two real warriors.
It put me in a thoughtful mood. I want to say a deep thank you to all of you who may have been there and done that in various dungheaps at the behest of Uncle Sam. Especially those of you who did your jobs so well, only to be villified by morons. Thank you for your sweat, your tears, your pain, and your blood. Thank you for the valor you displayed on behalf of those who never understood what you did or why you did it. Thank you and God bless.
) behind the counter was chatting with either a buddy or someone in idle chit chat and didn't give me a second glance for probably 10 minute or so, then "finally" came up and asked if I wanted to see anything. "No", I said - I would like to buy a Spyderco Paramilitary if you have a new one in a box. Now these guys were talking the merits of some of the "el cheapo" knives, and here I come blowing in and casually buy a $220 dollar blade. The look was priceless