Shooting a Gun

Today, I shot a gun for the first time. Legally, and without harming another living soul - only inanimate objects, of course. Today I, aided with strong metal wires put in place to avoid potential maniacs from turning the gun to aim it at another human, won the battle against a 9mm pistol's recoil, an exhilarating experience it was, all but the price I was charged.

Wearing my aviator sunglasses as a fashionable statement, I entered the shooting centre, almost prancing. The centre was a large warehouse, lathered with the finest antiques - petrol pumps, a long line of rusty lawn mowers, rags, a large golden cash register, a Chevrolet Bel air, a strange golden table, and all other wondrous pieces, all circa the eighteenth century and before. I removed my aviators and spun slowly in circles, gazing at all of the decorative pieces, sprawling from the floor to the ceiling. I was not sure at this stage what I was most amazed about - the fact that my family agreed to accompanying me to the gun range or how many rare and restored antiques I was exposed to in one place.

"He's the collector," the young man behind the counter notified my awestruck father and I. From behind the antique bar emerged a tall, muscular man in his late fifties. He had a slight swimmer's build, and a petite moustache forming on his upper lip, almost hidden by his widening smile that was filled with pride. He said little, and always strode around slowly with a strong hint of his dignity touching the souls of all onlookers.

The man behind the counter talked me through how to load a magazine, load the gun and how to pull the trigger - slowly. The rest was meaningless to me - sure, I would remember to keep my thumbs out of the way of the strong recoiling - people in movies shoot guns all the time, how hard could it be? I just wanted to feel the grip between my fingers and to pull the trigger for the very first time.

Almost two-hundred dollars later, and my father, sister, mother and I stepped into the shooting range wearing protective glasses and headphones. We waited for the family before us to finish. Every time they shot their guns, my eyes automatically closed shut. It was something I could not control. The sound of a bullet exiting the gun was so loud, even under these headphones, that my eyes were frightened. After experiencing the sound of a few more shots, I decided to go first.

I pushed the magazine into the bottom of the pistol - easy enough, it locked into place. I placed my hands correctly around the pistol, keeping in place my firm grip. I brought my vision to the rear sight, and tried to line it up with the front sight, and aimed at the bullseye - surely I would miss, and surely I did - not the entire target, but the bullseye. My first shot landed two rings out of the bullseye, the rest I cannot recall from my excitement. When I tried to reload, I could not hear the safety ranger notify me that I did not need to, and when I did I felt foolish. I kept shooting until the magazine was emptied.

I only missed the six targets six times. Mind you, this was my first time and I am proud of how well I aimed with the flimsy wrist that I have. "So you two girls haven't shot a gun before? This is going to be good," the man behind the counter laughed before he led us into the shooting range. We performed better than he ever expected. In fact, my sister's first bullet pierced the paper a few millimetres away from the bullseye - having spent my life as the elder sibling thinking that I would need to protect her in bad circumstances, I am now beginning to think that she can protect both of us, had we the ability to own a gun.

On our drive back to the hotel, I could not contain my smile. It turns out that attending the shooting range instead of the wax museum turned out much better, despite paying so much for shooting a gun and fifty rounds of American ammunition.