We find two floppy hats on the rack — perfect — and then notice the large glass counter next to the trying-on mirror. Under the glass of this counter, and on racks mounted on the wall behind, is an impressive display of guns. Handguns and rifles and shotguns and what-all. I overhear the counter guy and the customer, who both seem nice enough, discussing the merits of this gun and that gun. We’re in New Mexico. People here like their guns. In an attempt to get over my anxiety about meeting strangers, I saunter on over and start a conversation. “Y’know,” I mention, kind of offhand, “President Obama doesn’t really want to take your guns away from you.” No, I don’t do that. I don’t do that at all.