Bang!

I did it.  I shot a real gun.  Twenty times.  I even hit the target most of those times.

How did I come to shoot a gun, you may ask?  This peace-loving woman who captures bugs between a cup and a piece of cardboard so she can release them outside instead of squishing them?  

It was for a good cause.  The shooting range was hosting a benefit for Inflammatory Bowel Syndrome or some such malady.  $20 at the door bought two rounds of ammo and a promotional sticker.

But seriously, how did I come to this converted warehouse, in the town of Gormley, population 30, 000, to shoot a gun?  Ken brought me there.

Ken is good at target sports.  He was into archery for a while, and next on his list of interests was firearms.   A couple of weeks ago he finally followed up on his curiousity and visited the shooting range in Gormley.  His instructors were amazed at his steadiness and accuracy.  He came home with a poster-sized paper, riddled through the middle circle with bullet-holes, and a burning desire to share the experience with me.

I didn't start to feel nervous until we had parked the car by the side of the building.  I could hear sound of shots echoing through the walls and the metal fire doors.  There was a notice posted by the entrance, stating that if you entered the premises the owners were absolved of all responsibility for your safety.  That gave me a moment's pause for thought.

A lot of people were there, waiting for a turn on the range.  As the line inched forward, I grew paradoxically more at ease and more nervous at the same time; the sound of gunfire became less alarming as I grew accustomed to it, but of course ever step closer to holding a gun in my own hands was a scary one.

We signed elaborate waivers, stating in lengthy legalese that if we got shot it was just tough beans for us.  I stuffed foam earplugs in my ears, then donned safety glasses and earmuff-style ear protection on top of that.  It was cold enough that I kept my coat on.  Finally, the door to the range opened, and an employee beckoned us in.

Ken shouted that I would go first and that I wanted to shoot the Glock 9mm handgun (the smallest gun available).  Each round for that gun consists of 10 bullets.  Each station had a range employee carefully overseeing a shooter.  There were a lot of us first-timers there.

My minder didn't seem perturbed that I had never handled a gun before.  He gave me some brief instructions, most of which were swallowed up by bursts of explosions.  I read his lips and figured out enough that I felt moderately confident when he gave me the gun.

I had a loaded gun in my hands.  It didn't seem real.

I lined up the sights, pointed at the target, and squeezed the trigger.  Bang!  The gun jumped and a small hole appeared in my paper target, very far away from the spot I'd aimed for.  But I'd done it!  I shot the gun; no one was bleeding; and I even hit the paper!  

It was after that first shot, when I felt the powerful kick-back and heard the noise ricochet around the range, that my adrenaline really started pumping.  Now it was real.  I fired again. 

It was a good thing I'd been forewarned that the shell casings would fly back and might hit me in the face.  The instructor had shouted through my two layers of earplugs, "Just don't freak out!"  The first one hit me in the forehead, the second bounced off the tip of my nose.  I didn't freak out.  A third plonked down on the crown of my head.  I was cool.

By the time I was mostly through my second round of ammo, I was getting pretty shaky from adrenaline overload.  That was when a burning-hot shell casing flew back and lodged itself between the arm of my safety glasses and my left temple.  At that point, I did kind of freak out.  Still gingerly holding the loaded gun in my right hand, I frantically clawed at my face with my left hand, trying to dislodge the burning metal from contact with my skin.  My minder swiftly plucked the gun away from me and laid it down on the barrier.   

After yanking off my safety glasses and releasing the casing, I was truly rattled.  I made my last two shots with shaking hands, and was relieved to put the gun down and back away quietly.

Then it was Ken's turn.  He shot one round with the 9mm, and got all his shots right through the middle of the target.  Then he decided to move on to something bigger: a Glock .357.  

The range was set up with the smallest guns at the right end and the largest at the left.  This station was second from the left.  

I didn't like that end of the range.  The gunfire was much louder, and I couldn't help but jump at every explosion.  Someone was shooting the biggest gun, a 10mm.  I found myself holding my breath every time I saw him take aim, bracing for the impact of the sound.  I could not quell my startle reflex.  I thought about how scary it must be on a battlefield, with sonic shocks booming all around, the violence, and the fear of being hit.

Ken finally used up all his ammunition, and I was more than happy to follow him off the range.  

In the ladies' room, I hung my coat up on a hook.  Something went "Ting ting ting!" on the floor.  A shell casing had fallen out of my hood.  Now, that is unusual, I thought to myself.

I checked in the mirror.  I had three black dots of gunpowder on my chin, and an oblong pink burn on my left temple.  I washed off the powder with special heavy-metal-removing soap.  The burn remains.  I had been ritually scarred as part of my rite of passage.

I wouldn't say that I enjoyed the experience especially.  I was asked by a friend if I found it empowering, and I'd have to say "no".  Mostly it was nerve-racking.  But I am proud of myself for going through with it.  I might even go back.  We'll see.