AR-15

“So you got an AR!” says a gunned-up colleague named Curtis. We’re care-workers doing a morning shift in a supported-living facility, and my news puts a spring in his step. “Congratulations,” Curtis says. “Matt, you are becoming American. Gotta assault rifle; all you gotta do now is get fat.” “Cheers, mate,” I say, wiping down a countertop and thinking how inconceivable this was before I moved to Oregon from Australia, where rampage-esque firearms were outlawed and taken (with compensation) from existing owners way back in 1996. Curtis, a hell of a great care-worker but not someone I know well, is the chattiest with me he’s ever been. We’re bonding. “So, Matt,” he says. “Why’d you buy an AR? For shits and giggles?” “Pretty much, but it was a panic-purchase,” I say. “Biden was going on abou...