Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Living In The Wild, Wild West -- Part 3
The next day, I call our friend Patrick. Crystal Meth Gal’s visit had convinced me I needed some self-defense training. It was time I learned to shoot. And if anyone could show me how to shoot without blowing off my toes, it was Patrick. Patrick, the only person I know in Vegas who actually attended an Ivy school and even taught at Harvard, Patrick was also a diehard gun owner. While he’s a wee bit too guns-n-Rambo for me (he sported a shoulder holster for a while after 9/11 and convinced Stewart he needed to wear one too), I knew him to be a good, patient teacher. If Crystal Meth Gal and her boyfriend were coming back, I would be prepared. I would be La Femme Nikita, the chick from Alias, maybe with some Laura Croft, Tomb Raider, thrown in.
Of course, Stewart had offered to school me -- after all, I’d be firing his guns -- but I insisted on Patrick. Family members don’t always make the best teachers, something I learned when I was 15, and my mom tried to teach me to drive. By yelling frantically from the passenger seat. Turn here! HERE! Brake! BRAKE! Who needs that kind of pressure when you’re clutching a firearm?
We start with some safety basics, a few days later when Patrick comes over for Gun Slinging 101. He’s dressed for the occasion, wide-brimmed hat, khakis, lace-up boots. A Wild West Crocodile Dundee. In shooting, he tells me, there are three absolutes: Keep your finger off the trigger unless you’re about to fire. Always check to see if the gun’s loaded. (“Everyone always says I didn’t know it was loaded, Patrick grouses. “Always visually inspect it.”) And finally, keep the gun pointed in a safe direction, not at people, animals, houses, things. (“At the ground is always best.”)
Now that I’m cradling Stewart’s .22 rifle, my Femme Nikita enthusiasm is starting to wane. Maybe I don’t actually have to shoot it. Maybe just cocking the rifle will make enough noise to scare off intruders, sort of like the impressive choosh-choosh of a 12-gauge shotgun. The mere mention of the shotgun was enough to dispatch the Saturday Morning Holy Rollers. And they haven’t been back since. Patrick sighs and shakes his head. “Nothing makes a noise like a 12-gauge shotgun when it’s loaded,” he says. “If you’re not willing to use the gun, don’t touch it. You need to be very serious. And that means if you decide you’re going to protect yourself, there’s a chance you’re going to wound or kill somebody.”
Gulp.
We drive about a mile or so to the empty property behind ours. Patrick and Stewart often come up here to shoot practice rounds, and there’s a metal trash can riddled with bullet holes that’s clearly been a frequent target.
I haven’t even fired a single shot yet, and I’m already sweating, pardon the pun, bullets. I’ve never been thisclose to a loaded weapon. Patrick gives me ear plugs and goggles, then hands me the rifle. It’s awkward in my hands. I try to get comfortable as Patrick is talking ….
“Okay, keep your finger outside the trigger till the gun’s pointed at the target. Start aiming, click the safety off…take a breath, let half of it out, then squeeze the trigger.”
I am actually going to do this. I am actually going to fire a gun. It’s mind-blowing -- dainty Ms. Gun Control, packin’ heat.
I take forever . . . trying to remember everything that Patrick said . . . trying to keep the target in my sights while the rifle bounces around like a conductor’s baton.
I breathe in … squint hard at the target … let half of it out and --
Crack!
“Let’s take a look.” Patrick inspects the target while I pointedly point the gun toward the ground.
Okay, Annie Oakley I’m not. My shot’s not even in the same zipcode as the target.
I try again.
Crack!
“Close?” I call out, hopeful.
“You’ve waving a lot.”
“It’s heavy,” I complain (er, whine).
“It is,” Patrick affirms. “But it’s just a matter of finding a comfortable position.” We try again. “Put it up on your shoulder and lay your cheek down here. Now if you look right down this scope rail you’ll be looking right on the target.”
Crack!
Still off base. Way off.
We decide to move closer to the target. I guess I’ll only be able to shoot intruders close up. I should be strong enough to hold it steady, but the rifle is still waving like a flag.
Patrick has a brainstorm. “Which eye are you focusing with?”
My left. I’m right-handed, but I focus with my left eye.
“No wonder. You’re cocking your head, so that makes it more difficult to aim.”
So that’s the problem. Because I’m focusing with my left eye, I have to look across the barrel, which is why I’m shooting about three feet to the left. This is more complicated than I thought. Whatever happened to point and shoot. Oh, wait. That’s cameras. Come to think of it, I don’t have such great aim there either.
“Try closing your left eye when you aim,” Patrick suggests.
Crack!
“Better?”
“Try again.” Which of course means No, you suck ass.
Crack!
I’m still aiming far left --
Crack!
-- and still missing.
This is getting pathetic. I’m hot. And frustrated. And it’s rapidly becoming clear that for me to come anywhere close to hitting the target I’m going to have to run up there and beat it with the rifle butt. Plus, I’ve got the speed of a desert tortoise. At the rate it takes me to line up a shot and pull the trigger I’d be a goner for sure if Crystal-Meth Gal and her boyfriend come back.
We switch to Patrick’s 9 mm semi-automatic Glock pistol. Maybe I’ll have better luck with this. Though the Glock is huge in my hands, using a two-handed grip makes it easier to shoot. I hold the gun out in front of me. Standing with feet planted, arms stretched out in front of me, gun clasped in both hands, I really feel like one of Charlie’s Angels.
Patrick fires first so I can hear how loud it’ll be.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
It’s incredibly loud. Like, well, a gun shot. Far more threatening than the rifle’s discreet Crack!
“You get used to it,” Patrick shrugs.
“It’s scary,” I complain (er, whine).
“Stuff your ear pieces in more.”
Now it’s my turn. I pull the slide back to load the gun. I point it down range. “Take a normal breath, let half of it out, then line up the sights and then squeeze the trigger,” Patrick coaches from the sidelines. “The gun will push back, but if you keep your hands out, the force will come straight back, and it won’t recoil up.”
I get ready, aim, take a breath and . . . wimp out.
“I got scared.” I say.
“Don’t worry about all the details, just squeeze off a couple of rounds,” Patrick encourages.
Bam!
“SHIT!”
The noise terrifies me. I bet Kate Jackson never jumped out of her skin like that.
“Easy… it’s all right,” Patrick soothes.
I try again. Line up the sights, cock the gun, aim, suck in a breath and fire.
Bam!
“It’s scaring me.” But at least I’m finally hitting somewhere in the vicinity of the target.
Bam!
“Take a couple more. Enjoy it,” Patrick prompts.
Enjoy it? Not very likely. My hands are getting sore from gripping the gun so hard. And the noise freaks me out every time I fire. And it’s pretty clear that in crunch time -- with an intruder bearing down on me -- I’d never be able to remember everything (anything) Patrick’s telling me.
Bam!
High and to the left.
Bam!
“Pretty much dead center,” Patrick announces.
Bam!
“Same spot!”
He’s jubilant. The slow student is catching on. But there are still these loooong silences between shots as I psych myself up each time I pull the trigger. Which is why Patrick wants me to try another exercise: point the gun down to the ground and in a single fluid motion, raise and fire. “In most situations you’re not going to be able to stop and aim,” Patrick explains. No kidding. But apparently firing in whatever direction the gun is pointed at will do. “Most confrontations take place within 20 feet -- ” A comforting thought. “So if you can hit a one-foot circle, you can hit a vital area in an intense situation.” Another comforting thought.
I line up again. “When I say Go, lift up and shoot. It’s not going to be dead center. I just want you to get used to lining it up on the fly.”
Good idea. What intruder is going to stand around and wait for me to find my nerve?
“Ready?” I nod. “Go!”
Five long seconds later, I finally pull the trigger.
As a gunslinger, I pretty much suck. The pokiest gun in the West. I’m no Kiera Knightley, rounding up bail-skippers as a bounty hunter in Domino. No Annette Benning, popping off rounds at the shooting range to relieve stress in American Beauty. This is giving me stress. Though my aim is improving, there’s no way I’d be able to load, aim and then shoot a gun if confronted by anything more menacing than a rusty trash barrel with a paper target taped to it. Despite my fears about being alone on the mountain in a house that’s about as secure as a pup tent, it’s abundantly clear that, despite my bravado -- Where’s the shotgun?! -- I don’t have the gumption to fire on demand.
But what to do . . . what to do about protection? Some more durable windows, for starters. And I could stop opening the door to strangers
Of course, Stewart had offered to school me -- after all, I’d be firing his guns -- but I insisted on Patrick. Family members don’t always make the best teachers, something I learned when I was 15, and my mom tried to teach me to drive. By yelling frantically from the passenger seat. Turn here! HERE! Brake! BRAKE! Who needs that kind of pressure when you’re clutching a firearm?
We start with some safety basics, a few days later when Patrick comes over for Gun Slinging 101. He’s dressed for the occasion, wide-brimmed hat, khakis, lace-up boots. A Wild West Crocodile Dundee. In shooting, he tells me, there are three absolutes: Keep your finger off the trigger unless you’re about to fire. Always check to see if the gun’s loaded. (“Everyone always says I didn’t know it was loaded, Patrick grouses. “Always visually inspect it.”) And finally, keep the gun pointed in a safe direction, not at people, animals, houses, things. (“At the ground is always best.”)
Now that I’m cradling Stewart’s .22 rifle, my Femme Nikita enthusiasm is starting to wane. Maybe I don’t actually have to shoot it. Maybe just cocking the rifle will make enough noise to scare off intruders, sort of like the impressive choosh-choosh of a 12-gauge shotgun. The mere mention of the shotgun was enough to dispatch the Saturday Morning Holy Rollers. And they haven’t been back since. Patrick sighs and shakes his head. “Nothing makes a noise like a 12-gauge shotgun when it’s loaded,” he says. “If you’re not willing to use the gun, don’t touch it. You need to be very serious. And that means if you decide you’re going to protect yourself, there’s a chance you’re going to wound or kill somebody.”
Gulp.
We drive about a mile or so to the empty property behind ours. Patrick and Stewart often come up here to shoot practice rounds, and there’s a metal trash can riddled with bullet holes that’s clearly been a frequent target.
I haven’t even fired a single shot yet, and I’m already sweating, pardon the pun, bullets. I’ve never been thisclose to a loaded weapon. Patrick gives me ear plugs and goggles, then hands me the rifle. It’s awkward in my hands. I try to get comfortable as Patrick is talking ….
“Okay, keep your finger outside the trigger till the gun’s pointed at the target. Start aiming, click the safety off…take a breath, let half of it out, then squeeze the trigger.”
I am actually going to do this. I am actually going to fire a gun. It’s mind-blowing -- dainty Ms. Gun Control, packin’ heat.
I take forever . . . trying to remember everything that Patrick said . . . trying to keep the target in my sights while the rifle bounces around like a conductor’s baton.
I breathe in … squint hard at the target … let half of it out and --
Crack!
“Let’s take a look.” Patrick inspects the target while I pointedly point the gun toward the ground.
Okay, Annie Oakley I’m not. My shot’s not even in the same zipcode as the target.
I try again.
Crack!
“Close?” I call out, hopeful.
“You’ve waving a lot.”
“It’s heavy,” I complain (er, whine).
“It is,” Patrick affirms. “But it’s just a matter of finding a comfortable position.” We try again. “Put it up on your shoulder and lay your cheek down here. Now if you look right down this scope rail you’ll be looking right on the target.”
Crack!
Still off base. Way off.
We decide to move closer to the target. I guess I’ll only be able to shoot intruders close up. I should be strong enough to hold it steady, but the rifle is still waving like a flag.
Patrick has a brainstorm. “Which eye are you focusing with?”
My left. I’m right-handed, but I focus with my left eye.
“No wonder. You’re cocking your head, so that makes it more difficult to aim.”
So that’s the problem. Because I’m focusing with my left eye, I have to look across the barrel, which is why I’m shooting about three feet to the left. This is more complicated than I thought. Whatever happened to point and shoot. Oh, wait. That’s cameras. Come to think of it, I don’t have such great aim there either.
“Try closing your left eye when you aim,” Patrick suggests.
Crack!
“Better?”
“Try again.” Which of course means No, you suck ass.
Crack!
I’m still aiming far left --
Crack!
-- and still missing.
This is getting pathetic. I’m hot. And frustrated. And it’s rapidly becoming clear that for me to come anywhere close to hitting the target I’m going to have to run up there and beat it with the rifle butt. Plus, I’ve got the speed of a desert tortoise. At the rate it takes me to line up a shot and pull the trigger I’d be a goner for sure if Crystal-Meth Gal and her boyfriend come back.
We switch to Patrick’s 9 mm semi-automatic Glock pistol. Maybe I’ll have better luck with this. Though the Glock is huge in my hands, using a two-handed grip makes it easier to shoot. I hold the gun out in front of me. Standing with feet planted, arms stretched out in front of me, gun clasped in both hands, I really feel like one of Charlie’s Angels.
Patrick fires first so I can hear how loud it’ll be.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
It’s incredibly loud. Like, well, a gun shot. Far more threatening than the rifle’s discreet Crack!
“You get used to it,” Patrick shrugs.
“It’s scary,” I complain (er, whine).
“Stuff your ear pieces in more.”
Now it’s my turn. I pull the slide back to load the gun. I point it down range. “Take a normal breath, let half of it out, then line up the sights and then squeeze the trigger,” Patrick coaches from the sidelines. “The gun will push back, but if you keep your hands out, the force will come straight back, and it won’t recoil up.”
I get ready, aim, take a breath and . . . wimp out.
“I got scared.” I say.
“Don’t worry about all the details, just squeeze off a couple of rounds,” Patrick encourages.
Bam!
“SHIT!”
The noise terrifies me. I bet Kate Jackson never jumped out of her skin like that.
“Easy… it’s all right,” Patrick soothes.
I try again. Line up the sights, cock the gun, aim, suck in a breath and fire.
Bam!
“It’s scaring me.” But at least I’m finally hitting somewhere in the vicinity of the target.
Bam!
“Take a couple more. Enjoy it,” Patrick prompts.
Enjoy it? Not very likely. My hands are getting sore from gripping the gun so hard. And the noise freaks me out every time I fire. And it’s pretty clear that in crunch time -- with an intruder bearing down on me -- I’d never be able to remember everything (anything) Patrick’s telling me.
Bam!
High and to the left.
Bam!
“Pretty much dead center,” Patrick announces.
Bam!
“Same spot!”
He’s jubilant. The slow student is catching on. But there are still these loooong silences between shots as I psych myself up each time I pull the trigger. Which is why Patrick wants me to try another exercise: point the gun down to the ground and in a single fluid motion, raise and fire. “In most situations you’re not going to be able to stop and aim,” Patrick explains. No kidding. But apparently firing in whatever direction the gun is pointed at will do. “Most confrontations take place within 20 feet -- ” A comforting thought. “So if you can hit a one-foot circle, you can hit a vital area in an intense situation.” Another comforting thought.
I line up again. “When I say Go, lift up and shoot. It’s not going to be dead center. I just want you to get used to lining it up on the fly.”
Good idea. What intruder is going to stand around and wait for me to find my nerve?
“Ready?” I nod. “Go!”
Five long seconds later, I finally pull the trigger.
As a gunslinger, I pretty much suck. The pokiest gun in the West. I’m no Kiera Knightley, rounding up bail-skippers as a bounty hunter in Domino. No Annette Benning, popping off rounds at the shooting range to relieve stress in American Beauty. This is giving me stress. Though my aim is improving, there’s no way I’d be able to load, aim and then shoot a gun if confronted by anything more menacing than a rusty trash barrel with a paper target taped to it. Despite my fears about being alone on the mountain in a house that’s about as secure as a pup tent, it’s abundantly clear that, despite my bravado -- Where’s the shotgun?! -- I don’t have the gumption to fire on demand.
But what to do . . . what to do about protection? Some more durable windows, for starters. And I could stop opening the door to strangers
