Yesterday I fired a gun for the very first time. It was totally easy. Not only pulling the trigger, but gaining access to it in the first place. You go to a shooting range, sign a bunch of papers, and with no instruction whatsoever you're given a gun, some bullets and a shooting lane. (Okay, maybe it's not that easy: I went with Ricky who does this sort of thing all the time. Without him I would probably have had to take a five minute intro course.) It's sort of like bowling, and also a bit like pool and photography. Point and click; even children can do it.
I couldn't connect my muffled shots to any kind of potential for destruction. Bits of target would flutter peacefully to the ground... and it was so easy to pull the trigger. I had to constantly remind myself that with each little pop I was hurling pebbles of lead out into space at supersonic speeds. the absence of a safety net was surreal, sickening, and mildly thrilling. the temptation was fascinating. like when I was 13 and my bedroom had a 7th floor balcony with a wonderful view. i'd raise myself up on the railing, higher and higher, my heart racing, and my head spinning as i looked down onto the tiny cars below.
I felt like there should have been some ceremony. Like there should have been for when I first drove a car, for when I first got drunk, and for when I first made out with someone. Austin Powers had a list of things to do before he died, and so do I. So I checked my list, and that was that. Shooting a gun was something I'd contemplated, but it came and went like everything else. That's probably what death is like: it just happens with no ceremony at all.
The shooting range was staffed by hard core gun people. Many of them had tattoos and piercings, and it crossed my mind that they probably voted for Bush and were proud members of the NRA. one of them informed me that over all of history, bows and arrows have been responsible for more deaths than guns and bullets. i didn't bother arguing. but i did talk long enough to determine that he had in fact heard of world wars I and II. It must be that he couldn't add.
I couldn't connect my muffled shots to any kind of potential for destruction. Bits of target would flutter peacefully to the ground... and it was so easy to pull the trigger. I had to constantly remind myself that with each little pop I was hurling pebbles of lead out into space at supersonic speeds. the absence of a safety net was surreal, sickening, and mildly thrilling. the temptation was fascinating. like when I was 13 and my bedroom had a 7th floor balcony with a wonderful view. i'd raise myself up on the railing, higher and higher, my heart racing, and my head spinning as i looked down onto the tiny cars below.
I felt like there should have been some ceremony. Like there should have been for when I first drove a car, for when I first got drunk, and for when I first made out with someone. Austin Powers had a list of things to do before he died, and so do I. So I checked my list, and that was that. Shooting a gun was something I'd contemplated, but it came and went like everything else. That's probably what death is like: it just happens with no ceremony at all.
The shooting range was staffed by hard core gun people. Many of them had tattoos and piercings, and it crossed my mind that they probably voted for Bush and were proud members of the NRA. one of them informed me that over all of history, bows and arrows have been responsible for more deaths than guns and bullets. i didn't bother arguing. but i did talk long enough to determine that he had in fact heard of world wars I and II. It must be that he couldn't add.
posted by watchwrk at 11:58 AM
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