Oh, Shoot!

A well-known adage for writers is to “write what you know.” Which explains why you’ll never find a sex scene in one of my stories.  I suppose I could give it a try, but then I’d break another writing adage: Don’t bore your readers.

Thankfully, I don’t write romance. I write mysteries, so it’s a given that at least one of the characters will end up dead. And because shooting someone with a gun is much more expedient than waiting for a character to die of natural causes, it makes sense that I should know something about guns and how they work.

So when I saw the opportunity to visit a pistol range while at Sleuthfest – a conference for mystery writers in Orlando, Florida – I signed up. Now, I hoped, I’d be able to infuse my killing scenes with more drama, passion and excitement than any sex scene I wrote would ever be able to achieve. Plus, as I discovered when I took a trap shooting class (See Pistol Packin’ Mama), I just like pumping things full of lead.

At the conference hotel I boarded a bus bound for the pistol range along with a group of middle-aged writer types who all looked about as dangerous as Jessica Fletcher and that Cabot Cove sheriff played by Tom Bosley. All, that is, except that pair of Texans, who probably not only knew how to shoot, but were no doubt packing their own heat. That’s why everyone let them have a whole section of the bus to themselves. Then we gave them our lunch money.

The bus took us deeper and deeper into the heart of Orlando until there was nothing but pawn shops, check cashing joints and strip clubs. “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Disney anymore.” If there were any hidden Mickeys around, I didn’t want to see them.

Upon entering the pistol range, we were confronted with a large sign that stated: “No live ammunition allowed beyond this point.” I immediately felt right at home because I have an embroidered sampler with that exact quote hanging in my front entryway.

We were ushered into a small classroom where Tim, the instructor handed us each a questionnaire to fill out. It had the typical questions that you’d expect, like “How many felonies have you committed?” and “Have you ever been caught?” I think more useful questions – at least in my situation – would be “How freaked out are you right now?” and “ Do stressful situations make you want to shoot everyone around you?”

I answered all the questions then signed that all-important waiver. You know, the one that says if I shoot myself or if someone else shoots me, either accidentally or intentionally, it’s my own damned fault because I signed the waiver.  Tim then gave us a brief safety talk, including good advice like don’t look down the barrel of a gun when you’re trying to figure out why it didn’t go off, which sounded exactly like something I would do. None of this was doing anything to calm my jittery nerves. So I was an excellent candidate for handling a loaded firearm.

We each had the chance to fire a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver, chambered for a .38 to lessen the recoil, and a 9mm Glock semi-automatic. If that makes me sound like I know what I’m talking about, then I have a bridge in Brooklyn I want to sell you right after I get done shooting its lights out.

When it was my turn to go in the room where they do the shooting, I took my target, a blue silhouette of a man with a bull’s-eye on his chest, with me. There was nary a mark on the man, and I was afraid he’d look the same way when I was done with him. I pinned the target to a garage door opener contraption and the instructor sent it out about 30 feet, but it might as well have been 100.

Then the instructor gave me 10 bullets and told me to load them in the magazine. We’d been told that the only people who refer to a magazine as a “clip” are novices and people whose parents are first cousins. Apparently, this imprecision of language is a sore spot with gun enthusiasts, and people who say “clip” when they mean “magazine” deserve to be shot. And gun folk really don’t like it when you call a magazine “the bullet-holding thingy.”

Inserting bullets into the magazine turned out to be harder than I thought. If I ever have to reload during a shoot out, I’ll end up dead. But at least, as my lifeblood flows out of me, I can take solace in knowing that it was my inability to reload a magazine – and not a clip – that led to my untimely death.

I started with the Glock and managed, just barely, to hit the target. If the blue target man had a mouth, he’d probably have been smirking. Once I’d fired five rounds, the instructor had me shoot the next five rounds with the hammer cocked (there’s your sex scene – happy now?), which was much easier. Each time I pulled the trigger, my aim became better and better. Who’s laughing now, blue target man?

When I finished firing both the Glock and the .357 Magnum, I left the shooting range with my shot-up target and waited for the others to finish. I was feeling pretty good at this point because A) I was still alive, and B) my target looked respectable for a first-timer. The only people who’d done better were people who’d done some shooting before and people who spend a lot of time playing video games.

As they say on late night infomercials, “But wait, there’s more.” If we wanted to, we could fire a .44 Magnum, aka the Dirty Harry gun. Ten of us volunteered, including me. We each were allowed to shoot five rounds and this time we were allowed to aim for the head. I know what you’re thinking, “Did she fire six shots, or only five?” Well, to tell you the truth, in all the excitement I kinda lost track myself. But I can tell you that the blue target man ended up not feeling too lucky. Punk.

If you squint, I do sort of look like Clint Eastwood. 

Pistol Packin' Mama

A while back I posted about my experiences learning to field dress a deer during a Becoming an Outdoors Woman (BOW) weekend. (See Oh, Deer!) Not being a hunter, I’m not sure when I thought I’d ever have a chance to use these newly acquired skills. The only way I was going to come across a dead deer in need of skinning and gutting is if one had a heart attack and keeled over on his way to eating my hostas.

So I was delighted to learn that BOW was also offering classes in beginning shotgun and beginning rifle. Since the closest I’ve ever been to a gun is sitting in the front row of a Quentin Tarantino movie, I decided I’d better ask an expert for advice on which class to take. But not knowing any gun experts and being too lazy to track one down, I asked my husband instead. I took his advice to take the shotgun class because it would “be easier,” never stopping to consider that my husband’s sole experience with firearms is the occasional handling of a water pistol on a hot summer day. Sure, it was a super soaker, but still.

Imagine my surprise when I got there and found out shotgun was the hardest class because we’d be shooting at moving targets. I was relieved to learn that the moving targets were pigeons because first of all, everyone hates pigeons because they make a mess of everything and second, although none of the other women in the class looked to be particularly fast, they all seemed too nice to be considered target-worthy.

We started with a brief lecture on the different types of shotguns and gauges. All I remember about this part is “oh my god they’re going to hand me a loaded gun, oh my god they’re going to hand me a loaded gun” kept running through my head, drowning out any useful information. Then we had the all-important instructions on how to handle guns safely. I was sure they were going to say that the safest way to handle a gun is to keep your hands off of them, but no such luck.

At the range I looked around for the pigeons but all I could see were these orange discs flying through the air. Which was really annoying because they were probably scaring away all the pigeons. I let my classmates go first and watched in amazement as they shattered those discs and then congratulated each other. It was like they were aiming for them, or something.

Finally it was my turn to handle a 12 gauge. With the butt of the gun firmly wedged between my shoulder and cheek to minimize what they euphemistically call “the kick,” I took a deep breath and then said, “pull.” In theory, I would then see one of those orange discs fly in front of my field of vision, I’d follow it with my gun, pull the trigger and blow it out of the sky. In practice, panic caused everything to become a blur, I fired at random, and the disc sailed intact into the woods, free to live another day. The only thing I was in danger of wounding was my pride.

The instructor, baffled by my lack of aim, asked me what I saw when I looked down the barrel. I resisted the urge to say “my own mortality” because I hadn’t come all this way to get carted off the range for a psych eval. So I just said “I’m not sure.” The look on his face confirmed my worst suspicions: my panicked demeanor when pulling the trigger made those people who fire guns into the air at Arab celebrations look like precision sharpshooters. He suggested I take a breather. Away from the guns.

Eventually I decided to try my luck with a 20-gauge shotgun and a different instructor. Al, the 20-gauge instructor, told me to relax and go with the flow, like Tai Chi. I thought of the pajama-clad people I’d seen practicing their Tai Chi in the early morning in a park or on a beach. I had a hard time imagining any of them packing heat. But I followed Al’s advice anyway, and after several attempts I managed to hit one of those discs – while it was in the air, no less. I knew my family would be so proud. “Good news, kids. We’re having pigeon for dinner!”

I moseyed on back to the 12-guage station with more than a hint of swagger in my step and before long I’d bagged me another pigeon. Not wanting to press my luck, I decided to retire. I doubt I’ll be picking up a shotgun anytime soon (cue sound of wildlife around the world breathing a collective sigh of relief), but on the next really hot day, I just might reach for a super soaker.

I've been told this picture of me looks very "Thelma and Louise." I suppose if you squint, I do look a little like a young Brad Pitt.

The clay pigeons. I was excited to use my new-found field dressing skills on them, but they were a little dry and there was not that much meat.