Brass, Sweat, Steel and Gunpowder

I walked through what looked like a dining room that ran almost the length of the building I just went into.  Rows of clean perfect tables, pine wood panelling and concrete floors with a directional star in the middle, shocking for the place considering what it was.  I stopped and traced the toe of my pink steel toe boot along the "N" depicting North and then the "S" that was pointing more toward the door that I needed.  I could see the lake from the windows across from me and feel the pine needles stuck to the bottom of my boots.  I scanned the place, found the smile I was looking for and followed the bearer to the door with some bundles of things we needed to do what we had come to do.  

He opened the door, the squeak of the hinges resonating though the building that was empty except for us. The room smelled like nothing I've ever smelled before.  I sniffed, laughed and commented on the different odour that was an overpowering scent of unpolished brass, sweat, steel and gunpowder.  It was an assault on the senses at first but after leaving to use the washroom and re-entering, it became welcome, almost comforting.  That could have been do to the person who was waiting for me to come back.  Did my brain make a connection between the smell of a shooting range to the person who was introducing me to it?  Probably.  I'm sure if I was dragged there against my will, that smell would not have become so pleasant.

We walked the length of the range together, checking out what was ahead of us and planning targets.  I poked the at the archery targets with the fascination of a child.  They're actually a lot more dense than I expected.  I don't know why I was thinking they would be soft, maybe because I'm warped by Robin Hood: Men in Tights since the targets are stuffed with hay and look so fluffy in that movie.  We found a target deer  that I became quite amused by and I'm sure my sanity was called into question when I walked back down the range to check out the hole in the boards that made up the wall at the end.  There was nothing but wood chips and angled styrofoam panelling, musty and pungent.  I walked back with a skip in my step and helped with picking the perfect position for a target.  We hung normal target looking papers first, then zombie targets.  I guess we were playfully preparing for the zombie apocalypse.  I can't hit the broad side of the barn so I guess I'm very lucky that my wonderful instructor nailed Eddie the Executive square in the eye.  

It was my turn.  Which one did I want?  I didn't care, I don't really know the difference between them all yet (relax, I'm studying and learning and still a newbie so please forgive my fuck ups).  With my MS I shouldn't really be shooting without my wrists braced but I felt good today, a little stronger than usual so I gave in to temptation.  He handed me two 9mm, told me to pick.  Not so easy while I eyeballed the .45 that I remember being so fond of the first time he had taken me to a range, that one outdoor.  The lighter one, it might be easier.  He gently reminded me how to slide the clip in, pull the slide and the whispered reminder to keep my damn finger off of the trigger until I was ready to pull it.  

It's a strange feeling to have a gun in your hands.  Having my two hands wrapped on something that has such a destructive potential feels both empowering and terrifying at the same time.  It's anticipatory adrenaline that brings your heartbeat to your ears when your concentrating on that target ahead of you and every time I pulled that trigger, felt that recoil and resonance of the boom, I felt stunned at how utterly powerful these weapons really are.  I was holding in my little squeals but I couldn't hide that crooked smile of complete disbelief that I was really doing this, the Buddhist was learning to fire handguns.  I could hear my charming chaperon giggling behind me, keeping me grounded and keeping me safe.  I'll reiterate, I cannot hit the broadside of a barn but I managed to get some on target and the only thing I really accomplished was realizing how much fun target shooting is, having some laughs and feeling a little more bonded with my tender attendant who is, obviously, a much better shot than I ever will be.

We packed it in.  I swept up the brass shells while he gathered up the equipment.  Oddly enough, the sounds of the brass banging together and pouring into the bin was almost musical, like a deadly falling xylophone.  I swept the range of the papers that came off our mutilated targets, happily pushing the dirt to the pile already started by the hole in the wall while I was quickly reminiscing on the day and smiling at the laughter I could hear at the other end of the building.  A hearty, infectious laugh that dissipates any shitty mood I happen to be in and brings down the guard I normally have quite high.

So, all in all, it was a marvelous day and one that I'm thankful for.  I can't wait to do it again ... and again.