Hard drive archeology: Learning to shoot a gun
I was cleaning out my hard drive this morning and discovered something I wrote in 2001 after going to the range with a friend who had just completed police training. He wanted to practice, and I wanted the experience so off we went together. The references to The X Files clearly date the piece, but not by much. This is what I wrote:
So it's Friday night at the shooting range. The place is relatively empty--apparently Friday is a slow night--and suddenly I'm being handed protective glasses and sound-dampening head phones. If I weren't so nervous, I'd feel like Dana Scully preparing to sharpen her skills.
My friend has brought the better part of his personal arsenal: two rifles, three pistols, three different kinds of ammunition. We carry these things into the range in black totes that--if you didn't know better--look like camera bags or the sort of thing in which you might carry a stick bass guitar. He rents a basic revolver to teach me gun safety before we start to shoot: how to hold a gun, to be aware of where the gun is pointed at all times, checking the safety latch, how to show someone else a gun (always unload first), how to aim, how to load a revolver or a magazine full of bullets. ("It's not called a clip," he says. "Clips are for hair or for hanging up the laundry. It's called a magazine." I say, "Where I come from, you load a magazine with short stories, not bullets." He sticks his tongue out at me.)
So it's time to try and shoot. We start with a classic revolver with teeny bullets. He hangs up a target and sends the target holder back on its track about ten feet. I take the gun, holding it just the way he showed me, and fire it empty a couple of times to get the feel of it. (I flash back to that scene in Starman where Karen Allen is watching movies of Jeff Bridges showing off how to shoot a gun. He points it and says, "And squeeze..." Bang! "And squeeze..." Bang!)
Then we load it, and I point, and squeeze . . . BANG!
The first thing is, I'm surprised at how loud the sound of a gun being shot really is, even through protective headgear. Were I not wearing head phones, my ears would be ringing. The second thing is, if you haven't braced yourself properly, the kick can almost be painful. The third thing is, squeezing a trigger is work. It's not an easy clicky-click like with a toy gun; it's a spring-loaded feeling (even a revolver) that gets harder and harder the closer you are to actually firing the thing off.
I shoot six, empty the chambers, and reload. My friend praises me--"Good grouping, you're a natural" (all my bullets have punctured the paper target within an inch or so of each other)--and we go again. This time, when I put the gun down, there are only four new holes in the paper. Apparently I shot three times through the same hole. It's like shooting a camera, I think. Hold your breath to steady yourself before you fire. I use up half the ammo in the box--about 50 bullets--before we move on to a semi-automatic.
My nerves are calming. My friend says it's sort of a Zen thing; the less you think about it, the better you become. I'm thinking, "Use the Force, Luke," and my aim is improving.
We retrieve the target and hang a new one. I'm looking at the bullet holes getting progressively larger as we try to find a combination of gun and bullet size that is comfortable for me. The holes look huge. Suddenly I realize that the only appropriate way to describe shooting at a person would be to say that the bullets rip through a body. That's what they would do: tear flesh. You're shooting at paper, I think, not people.
Soon, he's showing off his new Beretta, all sleek lines and Italian economy. He braces himself and rapid-fires into the fresh target. Talk about grouping.
He rents me a Sig-Sauer--the kind Mulder uses on The X-Files--and I'm discovering that semi-automatic pistols are easier to shoot because they do the work of moving the bullets and reducing recoil. They also eject empty cartridges in every direction. One ejects and bounces off the wall. One ejects and bounces off my chest. Several land on the counter in front of us before bouncing to the floor. They feel more ergonomic, more natural than revolvers.
Two and a half hours later, we leave. My right hand is tired. We're both dehydrated and hungry. He hands me the targets from our session. "Souvenirs," he says, and I accept them like a kid getting an A on a penmanship test. I want to try this again, see how much better I can get.
After dinner, I go home and unroll the targets, looking at them one at a time. I notice the bullets leave dirty black marks around the punctures in the paper that are the shade of pencil lead. Look at that grouping.
And the holes look really big. Those bullets, they just rip right through.
Maybe I'll wait a while before I try this again.
So it's Friday night at the shooting range. The place is relatively empty--apparently Friday is a slow night--and suddenly I'm being handed protective glasses and sound-dampening head phones. If I weren't so nervous, I'd feel like Dana Scully preparing to sharpen her skills.
My friend has brought the better part of his personal arsenal: two rifles, three pistols, three different kinds of ammunition. We carry these things into the range in black totes that--if you didn't know better--look like camera bags or the sort of thing in which you might carry a stick bass guitar. He rents a basic revolver to teach me gun safety before we start to shoot: how to hold a gun, to be aware of where the gun is pointed at all times, checking the safety latch, how to show someone else a gun (always unload first), how to aim, how to load a revolver or a magazine full of bullets. ("It's not called a clip," he says. "Clips are for hair or for hanging up the laundry. It's called a magazine." I say, "Where I come from, you load a magazine with short stories, not bullets." He sticks his tongue out at me.)
So it's time to try and shoot. We start with a classic revolver with teeny bullets. He hangs up a target and sends the target holder back on its track about ten feet. I take the gun, holding it just the way he showed me, and fire it empty a couple of times to get the feel of it. (I flash back to that scene in Starman where Karen Allen is watching movies of Jeff Bridges showing off how to shoot a gun. He points it and says, "And squeeze..." Bang! "And squeeze..." Bang!)
Then we load it, and I point, and squeeze . . . BANG!
The first thing is, I'm surprised at how loud the sound of a gun being shot really is, even through protective headgear. Were I not wearing head phones, my ears would be ringing. The second thing is, if you haven't braced yourself properly, the kick can almost be painful. The third thing is, squeezing a trigger is work. It's not an easy clicky-click like with a toy gun; it's a spring-loaded feeling (even a revolver) that gets harder and harder the closer you are to actually firing the thing off.
I shoot six, empty the chambers, and reload. My friend praises me--"Good grouping, you're a natural" (all my bullets have punctured the paper target within an inch or so of each other)--and we go again. This time, when I put the gun down, there are only four new holes in the paper. Apparently I shot three times through the same hole. It's like shooting a camera, I think. Hold your breath to steady yourself before you fire. I use up half the ammo in the box--about 50 bullets--before we move on to a semi-automatic.
My nerves are calming. My friend says it's sort of a Zen thing; the less you think about it, the better you become. I'm thinking, "Use the Force, Luke," and my aim is improving.
We retrieve the target and hang a new one. I'm looking at the bullet holes getting progressively larger as we try to find a combination of gun and bullet size that is comfortable for me. The holes look huge. Suddenly I realize that the only appropriate way to describe shooting at a person would be to say that the bullets rip through a body. That's what they would do: tear flesh. You're shooting at paper, I think, not people.
Soon, he's showing off his new Beretta, all sleek lines and Italian economy. He braces himself and rapid-fires into the fresh target. Talk about grouping.
He rents me a Sig-Sauer--the kind Mulder uses on The X-Files--and I'm discovering that semi-automatic pistols are easier to shoot because they do the work of moving the bullets and reducing recoil. They also eject empty cartridges in every direction. One ejects and bounces off the wall. One ejects and bounces off my chest. Several land on the counter in front of us before bouncing to the floor. They feel more ergonomic, more natural than revolvers.
Two and a half hours later, we leave. My right hand is tired. We're both dehydrated and hungry. He hands me the targets from our session. "Souvenirs," he says, and I accept them like a kid getting an A on a penmanship test. I want to try this again, see how much better I can get.
After dinner, I go home and unroll the targets, looking at them one at a time. I notice the bullets leave dirty black marks around the punctures in the paper that are the shade of pencil lead. Look at that grouping.
And the holes look really big. Those bullets, they just rip right through.
Maybe I'll wait a while before I try this again.