I pulled into a poorly lit parking lot on the southeast side of Portland, close enough to the business at the east end to make it appear that what was about to happen was a lot less seedy than it actually was. I turned my lights off and sat in the dark, until my phone vibrated and the message I was waiting for flashed on the screen.

“Two minutes out.”

I took a deep breath and looked around for potential threats. This side of Portland is notorious for all sorts of nefarious people skulking about, casing vehicles and looking for opportunities for hooliganism. I had noticed a homeless person laying down next to the entrance to the business who’s parking lot I was using for my own purposes, but I wrote him off as not a threat. I double checked my parking to make sure I could get away from here quickly if I needed to, and felt the bulge on my hip to verify I could handle most threats I may encounter. As I was checking the envelope to make sure all of the money was there, my phone vibrated again.

“Just pulled in, silver mini-van”.

Silver mini-van? What kind of person am I buying from?

I saw the vehicle almost immediately, his running lights were going and the interior of the vehicle was lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. Obviously, this dude was an amateur. I opened up the door and stepped out of the car, looking around for any other potential issues I may have missed. I hadn’t noticed through the tint on my windows, but a SUV nearby was clearly running with it’s exterior lights off, but the vehicle was creating a almost imperceptible squeak as it gently rocked back and forth.

Fucking classy.

Mini-van dude exited his vehicle, and I could see enough of him to realize this dude was probably a huge fucking nerd. He was adorned with tan slacks and a tucked in polo, looking everything like a dad who doesn’t season his meat on the bar-b-que. I made sure I had the envelope in my pocket and walked towards him.

“Hey there, are you Mike?”

“Yeah man, do you have the gun?”

“Sure do! It’s right here!”

The rifle was beat up, but it was all there. A 1899 M39 Mosin Nagant, not the post war shit sold on the surplus market but the real McCoy, obviously well used. I quickly handed him the envelope, waited for him to count it then set off back to my vehicle.

“Hope you enjoy it!” he called after me.

As I got closer to my car I realized the homeless dude who was previously laying down near the entrance to the store was actively trying to open my passenger door.

I shouted the first thing that came to mind. “Hey! can I help you with something there?”

“Oh I’m just trying to get into my car,” he said.

“Uhh…that’s my car man”. My hand slid to the bulge on my hip.

“oh, yeah, sorry man.”

As he ran away behind a nearby building, I quickly checked to make sure my tires were intact and he hadn’t damaged my car door. Satisfied all was well, I got behind the wheel and exited the parking lot quickly. On the way home, I realized the extent I was going to in order to acquire collectable firearms was more akin to a drug addict trying to get their fix than it was to a serious history buff.

That was roughly ten years ago, before the laws changed and such encounters like that were made illegal. But the addiction is still there, I’m just more cautious about when and where I feed it.