That's When I Reach for My Revolver*

Part II: Fire

Trigger warning.

Our story begins here, with Mister Saturday Special, and continues below.

At the start of our lesson, Bort had outlined a few rules for handling guns, which he goes over again before we leave for the range:

1. Treat every firearm as if it’s loaded.

2. Never point the gun at anything you do not want to destroy.

3. Keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to shoot.

4. Always be aware of what’s behind your target.

Now he adds some rules about range etiquette. Bort explains what to do when the RO (Range Officer/Range Master) shouts “Cease fire!” and how, once it’s yelled, you repeat it back so that everyone has heard. He reminds us that all guns must be pointed down range at all times, even when they’re lying on a table in front of you. (Many rules apply to specific gun ranges, so look up those rules on their website before you go.)

We pack up the car and head over to FreeState in Gun Range, in Middle River, which claims to be the “friendliest” gun range in town. (Here are FreeState’s Range Rules.)

As expected, the parking lot is rife with extra-large pickup trucks. But it’s the lone Musk Swasticar that gives me pause.

Paper targets cost $1 each. I think about using them to make art.

Inside the building, the shooters, mostly men but a few couples, are waiting for a lane. Two Black women have come together. I like them immediately. It feels like the ultimate girl-bonding experience, much braver than getting pedicures.

There’s a 45-minute wait for our lanes, so we newbs, including the pair of friends, watch the gun safety video. When it’s over, our lanes are ready, so a female staff member shows my group how to load a clip (magazine) with 22mm dummy bullets and bump the clip in. The rules state that our group must shoot 50 rounds with the 22mm before we can move onto the stuff that rips body parts paper targets open.

You can’t go through the doors without earmuffs and goggles, and there’s a buffer zone. When the store door closes, we open the range door. The first gunshot we hear is a literal jump scare. I press my hands against the ear protection, unconvinced that I won’t hear anything but a high-pitched squeal for the rest of the day. (Foreshadowing: Our ears were fine.)

Bort clips the paper targets to the lines and sends each out five yards. I’m nervous, but Serena offers to go first. The .22 goes “pew.” Meanwhile, the guns around us go “BLAUU” and “BOOM” and “POW.” I am wearing cartoon leggings with those very sounds printed on them and assign a sound to each thing I hear.

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When it’s my turn, I load the clip easily, though I have to think twice about which direction to load the bullets. I shoot. I shoot again and again, three or four shots to start. One of the casings lands on my neck and it’s hot. I panic for a moment—not because I think I’ve been shot but because the casing burns—and forget I have a gun in my hand. Bort quickly corrects me: “Downrange!” I look at the paper five yards away to see if I have hit anywhere close to the X, and it’s patently unfulfilling; the bullets are too tiny for us to see where they’ve pierced the paper from this distance. We keep shooting anyway, emptying clips just to finish our 50 rounds and move to the bigger bullets.

That’s when I reach for my revolver. I practice with this gun because I will “inherit” a Smith & Wesson once I get my license. Revolvers are heavy, especially after shooting a plastic handgun, but that heft helps the grip feel steady. The weight adds to the gravity of the experience. We start with 38-caliber bullets, and we can see the holes we make, which is much more rewarding. Each time it’s my turn, I shoot my first round forgetting to line the sights up correctly. In the range, it’s OK because you get a lot of do-overs. In real life, accuracy matters. I get close to the target. Serena, though, is a natural. Her shots are the most accurate and consistent.

I remain intimidated and nervous throughout our family activity. I jump every time a gun is fired, which is every second; the lanes are full. My head hurts from the earmuffs and the glasses over my glasses, and I beg out early. But not before shooting one 357 Magnum. One is enough. The sound and the recoil leave me spent.

I peruse the gun shop looking for better earmuffs, perhaps; a stylish turquoise pair for $50 catches my attention, but I’m reconsidering. I have enough hobbies to turn something that leaves me this rattled into another.

The drive home is quiet, and I’m contemplative. What are my goals here? Home protection? Self-defense? Do I want a shotgun? I don’t worry about impulse control. I’m not carrying it around anywhere.

Like many of my friends—including some who scoff at the notion that I’d even get a gun lesson—I had never seriously considered having a gun in my home. But the what-ifs are piling up like the shell casings on the floor of the shooting range. And as I get ready for bed, one of them—that hot one that hit my neck—falls out of my bra onto the bedroom floor.

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*The title comes from one of my favorite songs from, you know, BITD: