Bit o’ the ol’ 3/8-life crisis over at Avid Bruxist headquarters, folks. So far, I’ve bought a new car, dyed my hair dark, and made inappropriate advances at a friend.
So! Guns!
Right?
I don’t know, I’d always wanted to shoot a gun, and my buddy Kyle, you know, has several, so in my I’ll-be-37-next-month/dead-soon-enough/might-as-well-do-shit mode, I requested a tutorial from him. We got our schedules aligned and headed to the shooting range Monday night.
I read the whole rules and rights and responsibilities document and signed away my right to sue the place if I shot myself dead.
Kyle rounded up our eye and ear protection and bought some ammo. The dude behind the counter, who had a holstered sidearm, handed me a target sheet. “Skeletor,” remarked Kyle (about the target, not the dude). We were assigned lane—lane?—6, but we had the whole place to ourselves. I thought that was probably a good thing—I wasn’t sure how floppy my aim would be, and accidentally shooting somebody would probably harsh my (whatever the opposite of) mellow (is).
The range was different from what I expected. First, it was about 100 degrees in there, and second, well, the place was shot all to shit. Seems like exactly what one would expect; don’t know why I pictured more white walls and glass? That doesn’t even make any sense! Did I see that in a movie?
Anyway, walls were black/ceiling was black. Or at least everything had once been particle board painted black and was now pock-marked and pulpy-looking.
Kyle clipped Skeletor up to the hanging thing, scooted him away a few yards, and loaded one of his weapons. “What am I shooting here?” I asked him.
“A .40—it’s what the cops carry,” he told me and placed it in my hand.
He told me how to grip the gun (during the session, he had to say, “Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot,” aboooouuut 9 times… maybe 11… baker’s dozen). He asked which was my dominant eye. I told him right. He told me to close my left eye. Knees bent, he said. Lean forward. Aim. Don’t pull the trigger; mash the trigger.
The noise-canceling headphones left only a dull roar from the exhaust fan and Kyle’s voice prompting me from behind.
I gripped the gun. My hands felt greasy. I closed my left eye and aimed at Skeletor. I bent my knees and leaned forward and mashed the trigger. Blam! The gun jerked in my hands, and I screamed a ridiculous, high-pitched, girly scream. Kyle was laughing behind me. We both looked at the target sheet.
“Nice, Amy Scott. Center mass,” Kyle said. I had hit Skeletor pretty much in his evil goddamn heart. Whoa.
The gun held 12 bullets. I shot all twelve. All twelve hit in the box in the middle chest. Skeletor’s vital organs would’ve been porous.
The first knuckle of my thumb was red and stinging, but I was ready to shoot again. Kyle loaded the gun and moved the target a little farther away. I still hit mostly center, but with each shot, my thumb smarted more, and I was pulling left. On about the ninth round, the flesh on the back of my thumb in between the knuckles split open.
“Jesus,” Kyle said, looking at the blood. “Show me your grip.” I showed him. Oh. Oh. I had been holding the gun totally wrong, and it had been biting me on the kickback.
For the last few shots and then a whole clip from another piece (9 rounds), I held the guns properly and, guess what, no more bleeding.
Kyle offered to keep going, but I was sweaty and shaky and tired. Plus, I liked the way Skeletor looked, and I didn’t want to mess it up.
I got home from work today to find two bullet holes in my living room window. (My neighborhood is so fancy!) The cops came out and said, since the bullets hadn’t pierced both panes of glass and there were four dents in my siding as well, it was most likely a kid with a BB gun. My sister suggested I laminate Skeletor and hang him outside. Yeah, I could put a sign next to him that says “You aim your goddamn BB gun at my living room window again, I’ll aim my .40 at your center mass”.