Firearms Training
It came to us as many great ideas often do. My colleague and I were sitting in a bar, drinking beer and eating ribs and venison chili. Not only were we eating game, but we had just finished playing the arcade game "Big Buck Hunter." The point of this game is to shoot the crap out of bucks with a life-sized toy rifle attached to the machine by a wire. It’s highly addictive, and also stirs passions among many of my friends.
"Why don’t we go to the shooting range?" we asked ourselves while chewing our food, intoxicated from the beer and the successful "hunt" for bucks instead of chicks, but serious in our intent nonetheless. I knew there was an indoor firing range in Manhattan because I had seen the ads in newspapers. It was indeed easy to locate, and within a couple of days, we had booked a session: lesson, rifle rental, and 5 magazines (50 rounds) to shoot for around $55. It was on! I had never held a real gun in my hand before, let alone shot one, so it was party time. In the days leading up to our firearms training, we could hardly restrain our steadily building excitement. We had to tone it down, lest our other colleagues thought we were terrorists or had some zealous vendetta to fulfill. To be honest, I was simply indulging my longtime fascination with guns. You know I’m quite the gentle, non-violent fellow. You know they won’t catch me "riding dirty."
So we arrive at the scene, a massive underground space on an otherwise ritzy street in the Flatiron district with an entrance immediately next door to a strip club. How appropriate, I thought: guns and girls, within easy access reach of each other. As we descended the stairs and entered the range office, we joined other men and women who seemed to be beginners like us.
After a short wait, we were ushered into the classroom. There were about 9 of us in the class. "You’ve got to be kidding," I thought, looking at the young lady on the chair in front of me. She was wearing high heals, a tank top, and tight pants that would have been slightly more appropriate for a sorority dance party than a firing range. Next we signed a waiver which basically said, "if you kill or hurt yourself by accident, or if you are killed or hurt by one of these other amateurs sitting nearby, well that’s too bad." After some morbid jokes were exchanged, we signed the forms and got our guns. They were 22-caliber rifles, which are fairly easy to use and a good beginner’s weapon.
The instructor, a goofy-looking, middle-aged ex-military type, was too casual for my liking. He told us how to aim, how to switch the safety on and off, how to hold the gun on your shoulder, and how to reload. Within a few minutes, he left us and our classmates in the room to fill out the magazines with bullets. I felt a slight fear as I loaded the magazines, not entirely sure I knew what the hell I was doing, and not too comfortable with all these beginners around me holding rifles pointed cluelessly in every which direction.
Another few minutes later, and I was in the range down the hall from the classroom. We were provided with goggles and ear protection, and assigned to individual booths. Then the fun started. I eyed the paper bullseye target and shot, aiming with my right eye. If you’re right-handed, the rifle is supposed to rest on your right shoulder and the right eye is supposed to line up the target with the tiny ‘v’ at the end of the barrel. Unfortunately, my right eye is not nearly as good as my left, and throughout the session, the bullseye would slide in and out of focus, often blurring in the middle of a shot.
Shooting felt exhilirating and a bit frightening at the same time. As the gunpowder and spent shells flew around in front of me from my weapon, a smell vaguely like firecrackers filled my nostrils, and for one second a chill went down my spine as I imagined that I was in a war, shooting some foreign enemy instead of a paper bullseye. The loud shots going off constantly up and down the line of booths on either side added to the battle effect. Good thing that I wasn’t for real, since my vision was causing me to shoot high and to the left from the center of the bullseye repeatedly. My enemy would have easily capped my ass.
Toward the end, I tried to adjust, aiming lower and taking my time. The shooting improved, although I wasn’t too concerned about the accuracy. This was fun anyway. It produced a number of feelings at the same time, many of which you could draw various analogies to: control, power, warmth, and comfort. Shooting is also a release in different ways: release of stress, release of violence, release of a bullet from its home base, release from day-to-day life in civil society where guns are strictly limited. Although the shooting lasted about 15 minutes total, it was all of the above.
We were allowed to keep our targets upon completion. Lo and behold- the dressed-up high-healed princess was almost perfect in her aim- nearly every single shot exactly in the middle part of the bullseye to cause a big hole. "Oh my god, they told me I’m a natural! This is my first time!" she bragged. This type of handiwork was called "grouping." Contrast this with my target: bullet holes scattered long and wide all over the piece of construction paper so that it looked like swiss cheese. I smirked at her, jealous but vaguely turned on.
We walked out of the range, satiated for the time being, but knowing we wanted more. Plans are already afoot for round 2- when we get to play with higher-caliber toys.
