Shooting down my own theories in Nashville
“This is Bull-@#$%!”
The lanky kid ahead of me in line was not having it.
Not appreciating having to subject himself to the indignity of walking through a metal detector, not appreciating being forced to empty the contents of his faded jean pockets into small plastic tubs to be examined, scrutinized, judged by strangers. Not appreciating having to remove his trucker cap, like that’s a likely place to keep an explosive device anyway. But I suppose these days, y’never know.
Personally, I was pretty happy to present the contents of my bag for security, embarrassing secrets and all. And sure, the security measures might seem over the top to enter a theatre in, say, Hamilton, but this was Tennessee. And this was the Grand Ole Opry. And our tickets clearly stated NO FIREARMS, which made me wonder if at least five people in the crowd would intentionally defy the edict, insisting on their right to bear arms.
And if we’re being completely honest, it’s not like the recent spate of mass shootings in the U.S. hadn’t crossed my mind during the Uber ride over.
It’s kind of a weird feeling, one I never consider at home and one I hadn’t considered until that evening: the person next to me might be carrying a gun. Which got me wondering about every single person we encountered from that night forward. Was this person in line at Starbucks carrying a piece in her purse? What about our Uber driver? What about the crowd jammed in around us at the Johnny Cash Museum? Do they call them “pieces” in Nashville, or is that just a fake fact I picked up from watching network police dramas?
“I hear ya,” the security guard shook his head at the lanky kid. “I’m a gun guy. And yup, this is bull-!@#$.”
Well. That was reassuring. And so we took our seats in the theatre, not because we’re such huge country music fans (although it was a great show), but because we felt a trip to Nashville wouldn’t be complete without a visit to that iconic stage, the replica of which Connie Britton (a.k.a. Rayna James) treads across in rhinestone-studded boots on the TV show, “Nashville.” Which, also to be completely honest, is half the reason we chose this city as a destination for our girls’ trip. It didn’t disappoint — neither the Opry nor the city.
The next day, we walked. A lot. Down tranquil magnolia-lined paths on the Vanderbilt University campus, past one church, then another, then a hipster coffee shop, then another, shops, honky tonks, boot stores.
We tried to walk off some of the sweet potato pancakes topped with cinnamon syrup, chicken and waffles, biscuits and grits. (I’d like to tell you we ate all that spread over different meals but I can’t.)
There was a lot to take in. And that night we filed into the Tennessee Centre for the Performing Arts for a reading by one of my favourite writers, the hilarious David Sedaris.
On this night, there were no metal detectors, no security measures. When I booked our tickets months earlier, I chose seats as close to the front and centre as possible, which I now realized were … as close to the centre as possible. Seventeen seats into a row of 50-something. It would be hard to get out. If one had to.
After reading one story that had me shnotting with laughter, Sedaris went on to introduce his next piece. He wrote it after sending in his most recent book, Calypso, for publication. But no biggie, he explained. The topic is fairly timely and he will “hold up,” he quipped.
“It’s called Active Shooter.” Terrific. He’s taunting this Tennessee audience with his wry take on gun control. And I’m sitting 17 seats inside a row of 50-something.
Just then it occurred to me that the stranger seated to my left took off some time ago. And even for a super long bathroom break, she’d been gone a long time. Being that she was sitting 18 seats into a row of 50-something, did she know something the rest of us didn’t? Was she hanging at the back of the hall near an exit? Why would someone pay money to hear someone speak and then skip out halfway through, leaving their friend alone in the theatre?
When the overhead lights eventually went up and we stood to leave, I spotted the line wrapped around the theatre lobby.
The book signing. Of course. She left to get into the line to get her book signed.
Maybe it’s because I work in media or maybe it’s from watching too much crime TV or maybe it’s a little of both … but maybe next time I’ll try making shorter hops to ridiculous conclusions.