Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I had one of those conversations the other day—you know, the kind where halfway through you start wondering if you accidentally wandered into a satire piece and no one told you.

I’m talking to this guy, right? Nice enough. Friendly. The kind of guy who says “buddy” a lot. And he’s absolutely baffled—baffled—that a country like Iran might want a nuclear weapon.

“Why would they need that?” he asks me, shaking his head like the very idea is offensive to common sense. “That’s aggressive. That’s dangerous. That’s destabilizing.”

Now, normally, I’d nod, sip my drink, and let the conversation drift off into safer waters like weather or barbecue techniques. But then I notice—because it’s hard not to notice—that he is, at this very moment, casually open-carrying what looks like enough firepower to reenact a low-budget action movie.

So I ask, gently, “Why do you have that?”

And without missing a beat, he says, “Protection.”

Of course. Protection. Silly me. I forgot we live in a world where carrying an AR-15 to buy milk is just prudent risk management.

“I just think,” he continues, “you can’t trust people. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

And that’s when it hits me—the beautiful, almost poetic symmetry of it all. The sheer, unintentional performance art of the moment. I’m standing here listening to a man explain the unpredictable dangers of other people… while he himself is the most heavily armed variable in a ten-mile radius.

So I try. I really do. I try to bridge the gap.

“Okay,” I say, “imagine you live in a neighborhood where a bunch of your neighbors all have bigger guns than you. Some of them have pointed those guns at your house before. A few have even kicked in your door once or twice. You don’t exactly feel… safe.”

He nods. He’s with me so far. This is his language. This is his native tongue.

“And now imagine those neighbors are constantly talking about how dangerous you are,” I continue, “and how maybe someone should do something about you. Maybe take you out before you become a problem.”

His eyes narrow a little. He’s starting to feel it now. You can see the gears turning.

“So,” I say, “in that situation… wouldn’t you want a bigger gun?”

And I swear to you, there’s this moment—this tiny, flickering moment—where the light almost comes on. Where the connection is right there, hovering in the air between us like a fragile soap bubble.

And then… nope.

“No,” he says, confidently. “That’s different.”

Different. Of course it is. How could I have missed that?

Because when he feels threatened, it’s rational. It’s responsible. It’s practically a civic duty. But when an entire country feels surrounded and threatened? Well, that’s just irrational aggression. That’s madness. That’s something that needs to be stopped—preferably by people with bigger guns.

I nod slowly, because what else do you do at that point? Argue? Unpack it further? Draw diagrams?

“Right,” I say. “Totally different.”

And there I am, standing across from a man who trusts his own fear so completely that he’s built his identity around it—but can’t extend even a fraction of that understanding to anyone else. Not even as a thought experiment.

It’s almost impressive, really. The way the human brain can build these airtight compartments where logic goes in… and irony just quietly suffocates in the corner.

We finish the conversation the way these things always end—with a polite nod, a half-smile, and the unspoken agreement that reality is apparently a choose-your-own-adventure story.

And as I walk away, I can’t help but think: it’s not that he doesn’t understand.

It’s that he understands perfectly—just not in a way he’s willing to admit.