Hilary, Go Get Your Gun

One day in March I got a phone call from Andy's best and oldest friend, Dave Baldwin. He asked me if I was busy on Sunday. I said no, and cautiously asked him why. He said, "Because I am going to kidnap you."

"Oh, really. Kidnap me and do what?"

"I'm going to give you an experience you will never forget."

"What kind of experience?" I asked suspiciously.

"Come with me and you'll find out."

"Dave, should I be talking to my husband about this conversation?"

"Why?" he asked, amused. "He's not going."

At this point, I began to smell a conspiracy.

"Andy," I called out, "Dave says he wants to kidnap me on Sunday and give me an experience I will never forget."

"That's nice, dear," Andy said blithely. "Have fun."

I turned back to the phone. "Apparently, you have his full permission to kidnap me. Aren't you going to give me a hint on what this is about?"

"Naw," Dave said. "It's more fun this way. Dress casual, and remember, you asked for this."

And so I was duly kidnapped. Dave picked me up, and it was only when we reached his apartment that I learned the full extent of his plan.

"You're taking me to the gun range?" I asked, shocked.

Dave shrugged. "You told me that you've never fired one and always wanted to know what it was like. So I thought, what the hell. I'm going to range today. I can take you, too."

Yes, it's true. I'm a Quaker and a pacifist and I have always wanted to learn how to fire a gun.

I told myself that I wanted to learn this skill because I needed to know how a gun feels before I can accurately write a story about one. But in truth, I also just wanted to know if this was something that I could do. I had admitted this to Dave and my husband several months before, and then promptly forgot about it.

Neither Dave nor Andy had.

Dave put a 9mm gun in my hand and closed my fingers around it. "The first rule of being around guns is never assume that they are not loaded. You have got to check it for yourself, or you will never know. Here's how to load and unload the clip."

He paused, watching for my reaction. The gun felt strange in my hands, a cold alien thing that could kill. I was appalled to be holding it, and wanted to put it down, hide it from myself. I was also secretly thrilled at the power and danger of the item in my hands. I took a deep breath and returned my gaze to Dave. "What's the next rule?"

"Never point it at anybody unless you mean to shoot him." He looked at me again. "You've got that?"

"Yes."

He had me practice with the gun, opening the different chambers, closing them again, until he pronounced me ready to go to the range.

The gun club was an alien universe, and I felt like an undercover operative going incognito as we approached. I was certain that someone would know just from my face that I was the enemy: a pacifist vegetarian in favor of strong gun control laws. Would there be a check point? Would they ask to see ID?

It was a cold and windy day, and there was a lone man at the outside range in a hunting jacket firing a rifle. The inside of the club looked almost like a bar, with its subdued lighting, posters, and convivial tables and chairs. Whole families were there at the gun club, including several little girls and boys that looked barely old enough to be out of Kindergarten. They sat shelling peanuts while their parents were talking guns and politics.

No guys in dark suits and sunglasses. No one dressed in camouflage. I had to admit, everyone looked positively normal and no one questioned my right to be there.

Dave bought us a set number of minutes on the indoor firing range, some paper targets (not, Thank God, the ones with photos of Osama Bin Laden on them), and rented the necessary equipment: eye and ear protection.

As we went back towards the indoor range, we passed huge plastic bags full of esoteric gun parts and equipment: shells, wadding, and stuff I could not identify. Most of it was the stuff I could not identify.

We put on the ear and eye protection just before entering the range, and I was glad we did. The range was loud. Really, really loud. It was filled with old guys firing a variety of rifles. I felt terribly out of place, but followed Dave's lead and acted like, "Ho, hum. Yes, this is something I do regularly."

Pay no attention to the Pacifist behind the curtain.

We loaded the clips at the tables, but did not load the clips into the gun itself until we were at the actual firing range. Dave showed me how to brace myself, aim, and pull the trigger. The first few times, the kickback of the gun surprised me. So did the spent shells that came flying out as we fired. When I finished firing, the gun felt hot in my hands, and the air around me smelled strongly of the acrid scent of gun smoke.

Dave brought my target forward. I had mostly missed. I pushed the button to send the target back to its former distance, and loaded another clip into the gun. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

I did better. And then better still when I hit the target seven out of ten times at 50 yards.

Some of the old guys came over to chat with us as I was inspecting the paper target.

"It's her first time," Dave said, patting me on the shoulder.

"Is that a fact?" One of the old guys said. "Her first time? She didn't do bad at all."

Then he smiled at me. "It won't be your last time, either, will it?"

I put down the target and smiled. "No, it won't." Hilary Moon Murphy: Vegetarian. Pacifist. Sharp Shooter? I suppose that anything is possible.

Hmm

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