"Gun Check"

I’ve only fired a gun once.

Let me be more accurate about that. I fired two guns one time. Wait. I don’t mean I fired one bullet out of one gun and one bullet out of a second gun. It was this. On one occasion, I fired two guns multiple times. That best reflects what actually happened. But it’s hardly a great opening sentence.

On one occasion, I fired two guns multiple times.

It’s kind of lumpy.

Art and the truth. Always a battle.

SIGH.

And moving on.

At the time of the gun-firing experiment, I was training in a gym with a guy named Matt. I don’t know about other people, but when I’m training in a gym, I like to distract myself from the fact that I’m training in a gym. Otherwise, I start thinking, “What am I doing, training in a gym?”

My personal “distraction of choice” is talking. Matt and I were pretty good at it, so good, in fact, that I often forgot I was training in a gym. Until I had to lift something.

The conversation somehow turned to guns. I told Matt I had never fired one. (Cap guns excluded. Being a longtime cowboy in my heart, I’ve fired a truckload of those. Which leads me to a secondary point, “secondary” only for this post; in reality, it’s equally important. You can fire a million cap guns and still have no powerful inclination to fire an actual gun, especially at someone. This is a point the “anti-toy-gun” advocates steadfastly ignore: The vast majority of us know the difference between “playing cowboys” and dead.)

Okay, where was I? Oh yeah. I told Matt I had never fired a gun. Matt asked me if I wanted to try it sometime. I told him yeah. Why? Because I wanted to know how it felt.

A few days later, Matt drove us to an indoor place where people shoot guns, like a gun club, or something. Matt brought along a couple of pistols of his own, which he was willing to let me try, but he suggested that, being a beginner, I should rent a smaller caliber gun, a .22, as well. So I did.

Then we went in the back.

The back was like a bowling alley with bullets. Shooters stood in parallel lanes, wearing earphones to muffle the noise, and fired at black-circled paper targets, maybe thirty feet away. There was this mechanism, where you could later slide the target towards you, so you could check out how you did.

I sorta already knew this, but it came clearer when I was in there. Different guns shoot differently. With the .22 I had rented, you have to draw the hammer back each time before you pull the trigger. That’s how .22’s work. A consequence of this arrangement is that you have a measure of control over your shooting. The “hammer pulling” requirement allows you some “thinking time” to consider what you’re doing.

You draw back the hammer.

“Do I want to shoot this guy? Yes.”

BANG.

You draw back the hammer.

“Do I want to shoot him again? Yes.”

BANG.

You draw back the hammer.

“Do I want to…wait, I’m not sure.”

No BANG.

As you can see, this is a valuable safety precaution. As a result of the “thinking time”, you’ll have only shot the guy twice, instead of a bunch of times.

After firing a few rounds, I checked my target to see how I had done. I was surprised to find that a number of my shots had come pretty close to dead center.

Targets beware. I’m a dangerous hombre!

After shooting a while, I was ready to move up. Matt offered me his 9 millimeter.

What I’m about to describe was hardly my proudest moment. First off, I was incapable of loading the bullets. (I apparently lacked the arm-strength to hold back the spring at the bullet-loading place.) Matt had to load it for me.

You don’t feel all that manly when somebody else has to load your gun for you. Suddenly, I wished I were wearing an explanatory t-shirt with the words, “IT’S MY FIRST TIME…BUT I’M REALLY HAVING FUN!” printed on it.

I took Matt’s gun, walked over and faced the target. I remember needing to brace my shooting hand with my other hand. The 9 millimeter was substantially heavier than the .22.

I pointed the gun at the target and fired. And fired. And fired. And fired. And fired.

I quickly learned that if you don’t let go of the trigger of the 9 millimeter, the bullets keep flying out, one after another. Goodbye “thinking time.” You’re simply blasting away. Which is helpful if your adversary “passed” on “thinking time” and is blasting away at you.

I’m sure if you take lessons, they teach you to take your finger off the trigger. But that first time, it felt much less like I was firing the gun than that I was standing there watching as the gun fired itself.

Maybe it was smoky in there. Maybe it was pungent gunmetal oil burning my eyes. Maybe it was a dusty place. But for some reason, my eyes kept tearing up.

That was my only visit to the gun club.

(But I still watch cowboys on T.V.)