My First Time at a Shooting Range

I cupped my right hand over my left (southpaw style) and slowly inched my pointer finger off the frame and down to the trigger. I took a deep breath, relaxed my shoulders, and aimed the barrel for the center of the target’s chest–and then I tilted my aim a few degrees down, hoping that would be enough to accommodate for kickback.

I pulled the trigger. A champagne bottle-like pop! echoed within the stall.

My friend muttered advice into my ear: “Don’t close your eyes,” Valerie said. “And don’t flinch.”

Did I flinch?

I scanned the target. No holes anywhere. I looked at the dunes of asphalt and bullets at the end of the shooting range. My bullet was in there. Somewhere. Wasted.

I was surprised by how sterile, almost clinical, the shooting range felt. Up to that point, the only time I had heard gunshots (excluding entertainment, like shows or films) was on newsfeeds (which one could argue are a form of entertainment themselves). I was just waiting for someone to scream, to yell in response to the gunfire, for the hand-held camera to shake and jut away from the violence as the perpetrator made his way through the crowd…

No one yelled. We all shot, adjusted our stance, and shot again. 

A veteran had claimed the stall to our left. He set three handguns on the counter and distributed his twelve loaded magazines equally among them, emptying each one into the target with surgical precision. To our right, an elderly couple shared an antique revolver, exchanging it every few rounds. Like me, with me, they aimed, fired, and reset. It was methodical. Almost hypnotic.

I pulled the slide back and reset my aim. With an effort to keep my eyes open this time, I fired again. Pop! 

Valerie clapped and cheered. She pointed at the pin-sized puncture in the target’s belly. 

Did I make that?

I looked down at the two bullet casings near my feet, still bubbling with kinetic heat. My stomach was in knots. I reset and fired again.

“You’re flinching,” Valerie said. “Loosen your wrists. Absorb the gun’s power. Absorb the kickback. Don’t fight it.”

I set the gun on the countertop.

“I’m going to take a break,” I said. “Nerves. I shouldn’t fire if I fear it.”

Valerie agreed, picked up the gun, aimed, and struck the target in its head three consecutive times. I cheered.