Year of Firsts: Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels

Next on the list of Firsts was to learn to shoot a gun.  Until Sunday, I had never touched a gun. In fact, I had never seen a gun in the real world apart from the handguns police officers keep holstered on their belts and the military weaponry carried around by soldiers I’ve run into in other countries. However, since we all know now that exactly NO  ONE is coming for me in the event of the zombie apocalypse, I decided to take matters into my own hands and learn some vital skills that may someday help me survive in the hostile decimated world.

Two kind hearted gun-owning friends and one non-gun-owning-yet-gun-enthusiast friend agreed to assist me in my First.  Since we don’t know if these friends want their names on the internet, we will call them Friend1, Friend2, and Friend3 (the numbers do not indicate order of importance, so please do not write in with complaints).  Sunday morning, filled with trepidation, I put on a white sweatshirt and wrapped a brilliantly pink scarf around my neck to be sure I was not mistaken for a tree, a deer, a duck, or a target board.  Anyone who has been to a shooting range versus the woods on the first day of hunting season probably realizes that this was stupid and pointless. But as we know, the whole point of the First exercise is to tread beyond the line of ignorance drawn where I was born.  

The drive was long, the weather was rainy, and my head was filled with daydreams of getting accidentally shot in the face by a normally mild-mannered gun-owner seized by a fit of insanity, or by myself seized in a fit of total incompetence. When we arrived, Friend1 removed several shotguns from the trunk of the car and handed one to me. Struck with the horror of suddenly for the first time in my life holding an actual, real, un-plastic, un-water-filled gun, I couldn’t figure out how to hold it while also keeping it as far away from me as possible but then not wanting to admit to wanting to keep it as far away as possible so also holding it nonchalantly in a discreet yet totally cool manner.

“Stop holding it like a purse,” instructed Friend1.

I made my best attempt.

We walked into the store.  Immediately on my left was a door covered in photos of men next to large dead creatures. Immediately in front of me were lots of guns. Lots and lots and lots of guns.  Within half  a second I went from a person who had never seen a gun to someone who has seen eight billion guns in very close quarters.  One of them was pink.  One of them was monstrously large and had a notecard on it that read “This is not a real gun.”  It was the most comforting notecard I have ever read, even after the Women’s Studies Notecard Incident of 2003.  

“Hey!” said Friend3, pointing. I looked, and discovered a paper target of a zombie with little red capsules that burst like blood when you hit them. Practical application learning device!

We went to the counter to fill out paperwork. I had to write my driver’s license on a paper stating I was mentally sound and not about to sue anyone and then sign it. Friend1 asked for bullets for the shotguns.

“We don’t have any left,” the employee told him.  “There’s been a real shortage of that type of ammunition since the 2008 election.  Mysterious.  The companies are all still producing it, they keep making it, but where is it going? No one can find it to buy it.  Could be a conspiracy…”

If only I could remember everything he said. He did implicate Obama in the plot to ruin gun owners’ lives.  I was super pleased. What could be a better part of my gun experience than a gun owner spouting conspiracy theories with Obama at the heart of the nefarious cloud of mystery?

Yet, EVEN BETTER was the conversation between a second employee and a customer I caught the tiniest bit of on the way out. The employee was explaining the best way to shoot a groundhog in the garden. 

Oh yeah.

That happened.

When we had collected everything we needed (bullets, clay pigeons, ear protection, eye protection) we headed out into the rain to begin shooting. I am not exactly sure what I expected. It’s not that I didn’t expect what I saw, but I also didn’t not expect it either. In any event, there was no way I was in any danger of being mistaken for a deer, or anything other than a confused liberal who had wandered across the Virginia border.  There was a defined area where shooters stood all  in a line, shooting straight ahead at targets located at various distances. This greatly lessened the chances of getting shot, making my pink scarf unnecessary.  

 Friend1 showed me how to load the shotgun (which life has taught us is also known by some as a "boomstick") and how to load the clay pigeon launcher. Both were of equal difficulty. I learned that pumping the gun causes the useful result of actually moving the bullet into the chamber from which it is fired, and is not, in fact, simply an action used by men in movies to make themselves look really cool while making a dramatic sound.  I learned to brace the gun against my body for the kick back, which turned out to be significantly less than I feared.  I had envisioned myself being knocked over violently into the mud.  While I did feel it, it did not affect my balance or cause me any concern. This was pretty exciting.

But not as exciting as my 8^th or 9^th try at the flying orange discs when I actually shot one in the air.

“Holy shit!” said Friend3. “You hit it!!”

“Did I?” I said, confused.  “I did???”

“Yes…you did,” said Friend3

“THAT’S AMAZING!!”  I got quite excited for myself.

From there we moved over a few yards to shoot a handgun.  I am pretty sure I did manage to hit the paper the target was printed on, which is probably enough accuracy to at least slow down an advancing zombie. Looking three targets over to the right, I saw that instead of the traditional circular target someone had affixed a sketch of what appeared to be a zombie Osama Bin Laden.  At least, we are assuming it was supposed to be specifically Bin Laden.

After we had all shot many rounds into an unsuspecting paper, a voice on a microphone explained that everyone should finish their round, cease shooting, and when everyone had ceased, a red late came on over each station and everyone was safe to inspect or change their targets.  During this time, Friend1 suggested I take a little walk down the line to see the guns being used by others.  I wandered off, hands in my pockets, trying to look natural, and hide my total horror and terror at the sight of some of the weaponry others so very near me were using for their target practice.

After 1.5 hours I needed to head back to the safety of the North, so we packed up and drove out into the continual rain. Verdict? I still don’t believe people should be keeping the types of weaponry so many Americans keep in their homes. That shit’s ridiculous.  What we need in this country are high powered taser guns.  I say let every American home have one or ten of those.  Taser the crap out of intruders and the children and neighbors you mistake for intruders.  Enough to knock them unconscious for a good ten hours. I can totally get behind that.  However, I do now see the appeal of sport shooting in places like gun ranges and I also believe in hunters being able to have certain types of guns for hunting purposes.

Anyway, now I know how to shoot a gun (or some kinds of guns) should the apocalypse come.  Take that, ExBoyfriend1. I may survive for 24 hours after all. Provided someone happens to drop a shotgun immediately in my vicinity along with the proper ammunition. And I have at least an hour between each set of 3 zombies in which to load new ammo. Whatever. I’m working on it.