Dispactch: The Biddeford Gun Show, Two Years Later

It had been about two years since I had been to the annual Biddeford Gun Show, and by the looks of things, I hadn't missed much.

Like two years ago, the show was smaller than I remembered, but unlike two years ago, the crowds that had shown up, packed-in in fear and panic, were absent too.  A quick survey by the front door told me everything I needed to know.

Where there was usually a line to get in, was gone.  I was able to walk up to the check-in desk with my Enfield Mark 3 rifle unobstructed.  A fat, old Vietnam vet with bad arthritis cleared my weapon and barely managed to slide a paper tag around the trigger guard to prove that it was a weapon I had come in with.  I wasn't necessarily looking to sell the gun, but if someone made me the right offer, who knows.

My father and I began our usual pattern of walking around the outside tables first before making our way into the interior.  The show is held in a converted ice arena where the local high school hockey team plays and practices.  With this much room, you'd expect there to be more vendors, more people, more to see, but you'd be wrong.

It's unclear if the economy is playing a role in any of this; I check the prices of a few guns I'm familiar with and am shocked to learn that the same .45 I bought about four years ago is now about $150 dollars more expensive.  The average cost at the show of a middle-of-the-road AR15s (the civilian-marketed version of the military's M4 carbine) is running between $750 and $1200, depending on what you want and who made it.

My expectations are always high, I tell my dad, but seldom are they ever met at the gun show.

We're surrounded by RealTree camo, LL Bean boots, beer guts, and the occasional cabal of amateurish gangster wannabes gawking over a nickle-plated junk pistol worth less than the Chinese-manufactured accessories it comes with.  In my black NorthFace spring jacket and J. Crew wardrobe I stand out like a narc.

I notice there's a few women milling about with their boyfriends or husbands.  They look bored; with every group of five or six guys standing over a table, two feet behind them are a group of women, talking amongst themselves, or absently pushing a baby stroller back and forth in a four-foot area. 

We reach what's considered the centerpiece table, the vendor with the show's most prestige and I'm not surprised when I see the wide-smiling coked-out jackass with his bluetooth earpiece stuck to the side of his face, placating the group of XXXL t-shirt wearing hooligans all finger-fucking cheap Tech-9 assault pistols.

This guy, the vendor, somehow manages to hold a Level-3 gun permit, the hardest and most sought-after gun license in the country.  With the Level-3 license, one can own just about any killing devices ever constructed, if he or she has the right amount of money.  Why I'm so surprised by this guy, is the fact he's a known cocaine addict.

A few years back, my father and I paid him a visit in his home/shop to look at suppressors for one of my pistols.  When I found out nothing he had fit the threading on my barrel, we made to leave.  But then, this guy asked my dad if he wanted to see something of his in the back room.  Reluctantly my dad said "sure."

A few seconds after disappearing, my dad comes out and says we're out of here.  Apparently, the guy had offered my dad some cocaine.

So, flash forward to now: this grinning idiot is holding court amongst slack-jawed locals, laughing and smiling at them.  He knows he's about to feed his habit ten fold today.

I look down at his collection and I'm not terribly impressed.  His table looks like a collection of a FARC weapons cache; machine pistols with extended magazines and suppressors, AK47s with folding stocks, machetes, knives, M16s with under-barrel attachments, like M203s (grenade launchers) and miniature shotguns. 

He has three show-quality pieces stacked in the middle of his table, surrounded by the rest of the junk.  He has a pile of magazines and bullets, knives and tac-lights, even t-shirts for sale.  I take this all in, with the thought that, the more "advanced" our modern military weaponry gets, the more medieval it looks: picatinny rails poke out from the sides and tops of gun barrels like spikes on a mace, elongated magazines and folding stocks look like crude black hilts of swords.

The jackass must see me eying the top-shelf hardware because he's left the gang of comedians to one of his sons.  The group is collectively growing louder, crasser, slapping and snapping the dry actions on the junk hardware while pointing them in just about any other direction than safe.

"Yeah, that's a real beaut," he starts in right over me.  I don't think he recognizes me (its been years) but I ask if it's ok to shoulder his Styer Aug.  He says sure, in a very friendly way and I pick up the bullpup rifle.

I point it towards the ceiling and sight down the barrel.  Front Post sights; my cheek presses into the rest molded over the mag housing.  I adjust my grip a little on the forward under-barrel vertical "sweeper" grip and squeeze the weapon into my shoulder a little tighter.  I've never fired one of these before.

"How's the recoil?"  I ask.  He gets a little excited.  The price tag flashes into my view from the trigger guard and it reads $3500.  I nearly laugh.

"Smooth, the rotary bolt action sits back here at the shoulder," and he points to where the action would be, and goes on to talk about what I already know about the gun.  I set it down.

"Shame I'm a lefty...." I lie.  The gun can only be fired from the right-hand side due to it's ejection port being at the shoulder stock.  His face drains as I set the rifle back down.  He turns his attention back to Biddeford's Finest, his tone not as jovial as before.

The rest of the show goes like this: dad's more into the older, wooden stuff, and the "purse pistols"; the small caliber, easily concealable guns that you'd find in a woman's purse.  I'm more into the quality military hardware, the black polymers, etc.

There's really not much for us to look at.

Sure, there's tables with the occasional exotic piece, and there's enough plastic guns to go around, but nothing of real quality.  As we pass by a table, I notice a lone AR15 on a rack.  I ask to pick it up and shoulder it and the guy has no problem letting me do exactly that.

It's a good fit and the price is right.  I tell him it's the most honestly-priced weapon at the show and he takes it as a compliment.  He says that it looks like I know how to handle one, and I tell him I do.

I give the rifle the once over as my dad holds my Enfield.  I ask if the weapon's been recently cleaned and the vendor says "of course, yes."  I ask if it's ok to check the insides of the gun?

He hesitates and eventually says it's ok.  With the flat of my palm I pop the assembly pin out of the rear of the receiver and let the upper swing forward exposing the rifle's guts.  I'm surprised when a cobweb-covered bat doesn't flap out of the chamber.

I pull back a little and blow down the barrel, causing a plume of black dust to come out.  I look back at the vendor and say something snide and he takes it in stride.  Still, it's an alright "Frankenstein" gun (it was built of different parts, non-factory) for what he's asking.  I tell him I'll think about it.  He tells me I should help "stimulate" the economy.

We take in only a few more tables.  A few older men take a mild interest in my Enfield but no one makes an offer.  There's a sort of unspoken rule about private sales at gun shows.  You only make an offer if you're serious, and no one wants to make an offer unless they know what you're asking.  A few people ask me what I want for it, and I tell them to make me an offer.  They balk.

It's a stupid dance.

We leave empty-handed (save, of course, my Enfield) and get lunch at the Wendy's across the street.  I realize then how flavorless the food is. 

Later, on our way back to Rochester, we pass the Outlaw Motorcycle Club's burnt-down clubhouse.  Apparently the clubhouse had mysteriously burned down after a massive nation-wide raid had snatched up a bunch of members (and killed at least one.). 

We flip off the gutted building.