Initially a hobby, James collected weapons and stored them in a display case in his basement. He built it one summer by himself without anyone's help. He became increasingly paranoid as he neared middle age, worried that the government was taking away his rights as a citizen. At first, I asked what exactly he meant when he suggested the government was taking away his rights, but he would always respond with tangential rhetoric instead of giving me a straight answer. Eventually, I stopped bringing it up.
"Do you know how many nuclear bombs there are in the world?"
"How many?" I asked.
"Over 100,000. We only need about thirty to destroy the planet."
"The planet, or the people who live on it?"
"What's the difference?"
I don't know where he got the figures for that one.
"This is where I keep my grappling hook," he said, pointing.
The interesting thing about James, is that despite all his talk about the government and his rights, he keeps no guns. He keeps mostly the type of weapons that, save for a crossbow, don't require ammunition: axe, samurai sword, spear. He explained to me that guns run out of bullets, and then what do you do? I, of course, had no answer to that. With James, it's better to let him do the talking. Most curious of all, he keeps a lonely cannonball, perched in solitude at the bottom of the display case.
"Are you ever going to get a cannon for your cannonball?" I asked.
"Do you know where I can get one?"
"No."
"Well then I guess I have no idea."
And then he showed me the only item that actually worried me.
"This is where I keep my hand grenade. It works, in case you're wondering."
Of course I was wondering. It's a hand grenade.
"What happens," I asked, "if the grenade gets knocked over, and the pin falls out?"
"How would it get knocked over? It's in a secure case."
"Well, what if there was an earthquake?"
"An earthquake? In Maryland?"
"It's possible."
"No, see, that's where you're wrong. This grenade isn't going anywhere unless I move it, and personally remove the pin."
When I asked him if he had experience removing a pin from a grenade, he demurred. He had never fought in any war, and I watched him as the gears turned in his mind, trying to fabricate a story about where he learned how to use a grenade. His answer involved a trip to Germany where he befriended a military officer named Wilhelm, who was present when they tore down the Berlin Wall. Wilhelm, he told me, made the suggestion to use explosives to tear the Wall down quicker, and he offered his personal stash of grenades to all the East German people who were using slow, slow hammers and crowbars. After hearing Wilhelm's story, James asked if he had anymore grenades in his stash. He did, and the rest is history...
"In fact, he's the one who gave me this hammer," James told me, matter-of-factly.
As much as I'm able to share the excitement with him every time he shows me his collection, I can't help but worry that his slipping mind will one day get him into trouble. What if he sees a snake in the backyard, and tries to kill it with his scythe? Or his grenade? What will happen to the census worker that stops by his doorstep? What will happen to the guy who has to read his gas meter?
His beady blue eyes looked into mine before he turned to the final item in his arsenal and told me:
"This is where I keep my knife."
