So, my Clarise Starling days aren’t really all that far gone. We decided to take a trip to our local shooting range one weekend after perusing for blood oranges at the local farmer’s market. It was a weird day. I don’t think I was dressed appropriately, though the fashion etiquette for firing weapons wasn’t exactly posted at the entrance to the range. There wasn’t even a standard "DON’T" list to help me out - for visitors with the big, bold red circle and line drawn through it which would explain the spent shotgun cartridges and bullet casings on the carpeted floor... at the entrance door.
Check-in was liberal. I was waiting to sign an insurance policy and get electronically fingerprinted before the clerk handed a weapon over to me. Maybe a retina scan? Nothing of the sorts. The scraggly NRA hippie behind the counter asked us to simply sign a sheet on a clipboard then asked us how much ammo we wanted to buy. Espe purchased two 50 round boxes of ammunition and picked out a dull looking 9mm Luger from the glass case.
NRA hippie packed our wares into a plastic carry crate. I pulled two full sized male sillohute target sheets from the shelf and folded them while balancing the unfashionable protective earmuffs and goggles in my arms. Espe and I walked from the check-in point through a rickety wooden door to a room the size of a phone booth. A posted sign read: "Protective eyewear must be worn beyond this point." I dropped the crate on the floor, Luger included, and pushed the earmuffs down over my ears. Espe rolled his eyes. "Oops," I said grinning. I pushed the goggles on, grabbed the crate and slammed through the door to the shooting area.
It was loud of course, and hazy. There were people of all shapes and ages sprinkled throughout the lanes. The row of partitions extended about 20 yards, with a counter in each, facing what appeared to be an open hanger area with a series of electric-run pulleys for hanging targets. Bullet holes pierced the ceiling, walls, floor, light fixtures, pretty much any exposed area. I watched with interest while walking down the partitioned row. The first booth caught my eye because there was a large group of people in the both but only one was firing. They seemed excited and cheered each time the guy with the weapon in hand pulled the trigger.
Espe and I settled for a booth midway down the lane. He barely spoke, instead, just pointed around and shook his head yes or no. He handed me the 9mm and bumped the clip out. I had to load it. It took forever to push the bullets down one after another. I struggled once the clip was almost full and tight. It became evident, this was not a place for a French-tip manicure. He motioned me to step up and shoot first. Then he fastened the shooting target on the overhead clip then flicked a switch and I watched it whiz backwards. Far. Way the hell back in the dimly lit hanger. I could barely see it. Espe lay the fully loaded Luger on the counter. I picked it up, retracted the safety and pulled the back slide on the top of the barrel. The weapon felt light in my hands. I aimed at the target and pulled the trigger. He pushed into my knees slightly to make me bend them. I cracked off a few more shots, then I felt his hand on my upper back, making me lean forward into the shooting area. I shot again then lay the gun down. We switched places and he expertly squeezed off ten rounds. He genuinely looked impressed at my shooting ability. I had hit the target in the chest area, one bullseye dead center and several shots to the head. We alternated. It was my turn again. I picked up ol’ Lugey and aimed. Another bullet shell casing from the weapon popped up into the air.
Mind you, shell casings had been flying around this entire time. Not just from us but from the vigilante mother and daughter team next door to us as well as the two gangsters shooting 50-cent driveby-sideways style in the booth to my right. Oh, but my feisty casing flew up in the air hitting my protective goggled eyes (thank goodness) but didn’t just stop there, oh no. The hot piece of metal deflected off my lens, flew up over the top of the goggles, dropped within the small separation of space where the goggles sat away from my face and wedged itself on top of my right eyelid, just below my eyebrow.
It makes sense that a shell would be fairly hot after being ejected from a pistola, but I mean, damn. Maybe it hurt even more because of the sensitive spot where the metal landed. It stuck there. I continued firing with the afflicted eye closed while it got hotter. Finally I put the weapon down and fished the casing out of my goggles. Espe didn’t notice at first. My eyes began watering. I bent over and checked the tiny piece of metal on the ground for a tiny piece of my eyelid melted to it, but it was clean. I was rattled. He changed targets then began shooting again. With broken momentum, I stepped up to the counter again when it was my turn but flinched when I fired the first round. I continued missing the target completely while my eyelid remained on fire. Espe shot off the rest of the rounds. We swept the casings into a pile. I noticed the target within the stall at the far end of the shooting gallery. The idiots had tied a large Fanta soda bottle to the mobile target and shot wildly. More casings peppered the ground in rapid fire succession as we walked out. All in all, it was an interesting, harrowing adventure and I have another scar to prove it, providing a much more involved excuse for wearing excessive eyeshadow.
