Short Order Heroism

“Are you a cop?” I asked the man with the gun when he walked into the Waffle House. The place was packed for Sunday morning breakfast. We were seated just inside the door, waiting for a table. The trim, short-haired, forty-something man wore a holstered pistol on his belt. 

“No, I’m not a cop.”

“Then why are you bringing a gun into Waffle House on a Sunday morning?”

That set him off. His voice rising in pitch and volume, he spun to face me. “Virginia is a right to carry state. I have a constitutional right to carry this gun anywhere I want. I served two tours in Iraq and I know how to use this weapon. How dare you question me. I am a veteran.”

Never rising from my seat or raising my voice, I said, “I’m retired military. Probably served longer than you did but I don’t go around wearing a gun.”

Cheeks colored, now screaming, his speech becoming a word salad about the constitution, guns, his rights and my ancestry.

The Waffle House grew quiet. Forks poised mid-air. People standing.

Suddenly a wall of four large, Black men formed between me and the gun nut. Waffle House cooks. Heroes.  

“Sir, you will have to leave.”

They took a half step toward him and he backed toward the door. Then another half step. The Waffle House held its breath. He left.

Breathing again, the Waffle House slowly resumed its breakfast.