Y2K or not Y2K

Reprinted from November 1999.

I am no more of a worrier than the next person. The new millennium, Y2K, call it what you will - the Canadians call it "yuttica", I hear, has given me little pause. Other than deciding against major elective surgery, or flying across SouthEast Asia on a 32-year-old Russian jet, or testing out my credit card in an East European ATM, I have not taken any precautions against the "bug". Nor did I plan to.

I had pretty much the same vague curiosity as many of my fellows as to what exactly would happen around 12.01 on January 1, 2000. The overriding body of opinion suggests that, while there might have been a few hiccups in a few computer systems in a few organisations in a few countries, all would be well and life, business and cable television would go on as usual.

Then, one rainy Saturday morning, just a few months before the great date, I was stuck in a 5 mile-an-hour crawl in a blinding rainstorm on SR85 in North Georgia, when my eye was caught by a neon orange sign: "Y2K Survival Show", it beckoned. Sniffing a chance to escape the rain and the traffic and perhaps purchase a sexy gismo to preserve my computer's health, I pulled over. It cost $4 to get in, and a great deal of determination to get out. For this was no bug-busting software fare; no cutting-edge expo offering must-have devices to keep your white-goods working. No over-excited geeks, oh no. This was Doomsville - with a freezedried ID. Spread out before me were stalls selling dried grits; Idaho Instant Mash; vacuum-packed collard greens - and guns. Lots of guns.

"Hey guys, the real millennium's not til January 2001," I joshed. No one joshed back, so I stuck my head down and pretended to weigh up the relative nutritional merits of dried carrots against powdered yellow squash. A very large lady told me to "start cookin" and savin' now" - and directed me to the 17 models of home vacuum-packing kits in the next aisle. If only it were that simple to manage Armageddon. With the collapse of western society as we know it, the chances of an uninterrupted electricity supply for re-heating those grits seemed slim. The merchants decoded my musings and gathered round with their camping stoves and gas bottles like a bunch of mad-eyed scout leaders. I slipped aside to where wind-up radios would let us few survivors listen to the devastated remnants of the media - at last, a cheery thought. Anarchy and lawlessness would naturally accompany society's technological breakdown. The need for self-defense would be paramount.

Although there are over 250,000 handguns in private ownership in the US - one for nearly every man, woman and child with a social security number - you can always use another one. I picked up a 'piece' for the first time in my life. Instantly, I was surrounded. "What you really need ma'am is a 9mm Glock 17 with +P, hollow-point anti-personnel rounds."

"Just what I was thinking," I ad-libbed.

"Exactly," said Captain Conspiracy, waddling closer in his NRA T-shirt and denims. (Like most of the vendors, he appeared to have left nothing to chance and had eaten his Y2K rations in advance.) My mind was soon racing with hexagonal barrel dimensions, ten-round clips and double action triggers. The growing circle of middle-aged men around me discussed the quaintly termed "Take-Down" rating of each gun presented. Feeling like a bit-part player in "Deliverance" I tried to pull the action back on the SIG P230 I had been handed. My sweaty fingers slipped and I failed on the first two attempts. Gripping the slide more firmly, I assumed the position I had seen in so many detective movies and held the gun upwards and tugged. The action slid back and forward, extracting on its way a triangular flap of skin from the soft tissue between my thumb and finger. The sight of blood raised not a flicker.

"Give her the Kel-Tec, Bob."

A shiny new hunk of metal was thrust into my bleeding hand as I stood wondering whether my tetanus shots were up to date. The action was easier to pull back but I had lost interest and was scanning the horizon for anyone selling emergency medical kits. I replaced the gun on the counter, smiled at my tutors, begged some antibiotic cream from a helpful stallholder and headed for the door.

"The South is going to rise again," someone called after me. If all those dried rations get eaten I wouldn't be at all surprised.

The ease of acquisition of deadly weapons is a debate I had not taken much interest in up to now. I now knew that I could be walking back to my car with a "personal safety tool" as long as the phoned-in background check and my credit limit were good. I also knew that I could be toting a full size Nazi flag or an SS skull lapel pin for nothing more than 10 dollars and a lapse in good taste.

Millennium meltdown, I saw, was indeed a frightening prospect. Imagine a world on January 1 peopled only by gun-toting, white-supremacist, grits-eaters with a gift for forward planning. That 9mm Glock is sounding better all the time.

If you have any comments or feedback please let me know by dropping me a quick E-Mail.

copyright 1999, 2000 Kim Ribbans. All rights reserved 1999 Guardian and Observer News Service, London UK.
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