With a gun in hand, Dirty Harry famously said, “Go ahead, make my day.” For me, holding a gun pretty much ruined my day.
I thought my first trip to Harry Beckwith Gun Dealer and Indoor Pistol Range in Micanopy would be a pleasurable experience, and I would walk away feeling like a badass. Instead, holding that cold, heartless Walther P22 .22-caliber semiautomatic pistol only made my anxiety level soar.
Last Thursday afternoon, my friend Jackie, who is a seasoned shooter and enjoys visiting the gun range with her dad, accompanied me to Micanopy. Before leaving, she attempted to dress me properly. Apparently, I needed to cover up, or I’d risk getting hit with used bullet shells as they popped out with each shot. I took off my flip-flops and put on my grubby blue Vans. I put on a sweater over my tank top. It had been a few days since I washed any of my pants, so I kept my jean shorts on.
The first person we saw upon arriving at the range had a striking resemblance to Captain Ahab, or how I’d always imagined he would look. He had tough, tan skin and an impressive white beard. He wore a denim shirt with the top buttons undone, and a rope slung around his neck held what appeared to be a small knife close to his heart. This old grizzly bear walked purposefully through the parking lot, from the gun store to the indoor range.
The low-ceiling range building smelled like a cross between a skating rink and a barn full of hay. Wafts of old men’s feet mixed with the otherwise pleasant aroma of gunpowder. The walls were made of unfinished brick, and aisles of merchandise cluttered the space.
A young man working at the counter assisted us with the proper paperwork. We signed a waiver that included our promise to abstain from rapid- fire, quick-drawing or hip-shooting.
Not a problem, sir.
The next step was getting our eyes and ears protection, and of course, our pistol. The employee attempted to give me a tutorial, but I might as well have had the ears protection on because I couldn’t retain anything he was telling me.
Magazines, huh? Yes, I read them.
The range itself consisted of a dozen or so partitions, each with a counter to place your gun and ammunition on, and a target. We opted for the cheapest standard targets, even though I really wanted the one featuring a skeleton wearing a ski mask and wielding a butcher knife.
The employee continued his tutorial, and I learned, like in every other life situation, that shooting a gun would be more confusing because I’m left-handed. Once I finally got my hands wrapped around the weapon properly, I was told I was ready to shoot.
My ear protection only amplified my pounding heart, and I had to concentrate on breathing. The sounds of other people’s shots made me jump, and I turned back to Jackie to whine. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said.
“Just do it. You’ll be fine,” she said. Easy for her to say. This wasn’t her first rodeo.
I closed my right eye to focus on the target, and I exhaled as I pressed the trigger. That’s a tip I learned from an old episode of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” if you’re wondering.
The sound of the shot made me gasp, and I waited for that giddy, jubilant feeling to wash over me. Nothing. Maybe I lacked the killer instinct. I tried to shoot some more, but every time I pressed the trigger, I had a small heart attack.
After five or six shots, I had to walk away. I wiped my clammy hands on my shorts and passed the gun to Jackie. I wondered how people deal with the realization that they are holding something that could kill someone. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, and it was too heavy for me to contemplate further.
With my wallet $50 lighter, I carried our targets back to my car. Mine contained a handful of holes near the target’s neck. Jackie’s was littered with shots in the “kill zone.” We figured it’d be best to leave the used targets in my backseat — that way, if anyone tried to steal my impressive CD collection, they’d think twice.
As we were passing through Paynes Prairie on our way back to Gainesville, an eagle flew over U.S. Highway 441 and right in front of my Oldsmobile. How appropriate to witness the flight of this national treasure, I thought, considering we’d spent the afternoon enjoying America’s favorite pasttime.
I looked at Jackie. “God Bless America,” I said.
