The day before I went to the Shooting Range, Polly called to find out who was coming with me. “Mom, Pop, Slim, and Darren,” I answered. “Oh God,” she said, “It’s bad enough you’re risking our family’s lives, why do you have to drag Darren into this?” Darren is Slim’s boyfriend and the newest member of our tribe. “Look at it as a rite of passage,” I said, “he’s getting ‘jumped in’ to the family.” She said, “We’re not Crips, Alex. You can’t give Guns to these people. It’s totally ridiculous. No, no. Bring someone stable.” I mentally flipped through my Rolodex. “I don’t know anyone stable,” I said. “Well, find someone,” she said, “I’m not willing to lose my entire family for your blog.”
She had a point. Our family has a flair for dramatics, bordering on the Victorian, and we fight regularly. The wisdom of putting guns into the hands of people who have wanted to kill me (and each other) on more than one occasion suddenly felt very shaky but I hadn’t been able to convince anyone else to go. I said, “Look, if we’re gonna blow each other’s brains out, better we do it at a Shooting range than at Christmas.” She was quiet for a second and then said, “That’s valid. Alright. Call me when you guys are done.”
In the end, our folks bowed out. They were happy puttering at the house and beaming at the neighbors and didn’t want to interrupt their flow. Plus, naturally, they were fighting. He would hover over her and fret about the way she was laying the patio stones and then she would hover over him and fret about how much mortar he was mixing. “Probably best you don’t come,” Slim said to them as we made our way down the driveway. “It’ll be too tempting.”
The LA Gun club is located inside a converted warehouse in - you guessed it - the Fashion District. I ran inside and immediately scanned the room for Gun Guy, but he wasn’t there. An armed employee named Junior offered his assistance, and we took it, but I was cranky about Gun Guy not being there and made a mental note to pout about it later. After 15 minutes of instruction, Junior filled our baskets with the guns we had chosen, plus ammo, safety goggles and headphones. He pulled out paper targets depicting everything from the classic graph outline to photos of bad guys hiding behind trucks and masked intruders crouching in corners. They were really creepy. I picked the classic, in green, cause it matched my eye shadow. Junior pointed towards a long, narrow room divided by partitions. “Have fun,” he said.
I assumed, because of some random Charlie’s Angels flashbacks, that we would be in our own individual booths (and that I would, magically, be wearing a policewoman uniform) but we were all jumbled up together in one room and that upped the stakes. There were maybe 15 other people shooting guns and rifles right next to us and I stopped being worried about Slim getting revenge for the countless times I’ve pissed her off and started worrying about the strangers. Everyone else saw a nice couple on a date and some executives doing corporate building but I saw highly trained assassins who had recently quit smoking and were just looking for an excuse. I walked to the far end of the room.
It’s been sign-of-the-apocalypse hot in LA so the room was sweltering and really, really loud. Even with the headphones on, I jumped through my skin every time someone fired their gun, as if I had completely forgotten where I was. I was a wreck but I was also determined to finish the challenge so, with sweaty and shaking hands, I loaded the .44 Magnum, aimed at the paper target, and fired. Having the gun in my hand, loading it and firing it, made me feel powerful, sexy as hell, AND completely out of control. I felt like a total bad ass that no one should ever consider fucking with but also like a terrible mistake had been made and that I should never have been allowed to hold something that might do grave bodily damage. Turns out, I was the one who was tempted. Who knew that NOT killing someone would be the real challenge? You know, I’ve been tense.
While Slim and Darren traded weapons and notes, I took a second to step back and take in my surroundings. I watched the strangers, stealth-style, and noticed that one looked a little wonky, probably on account of his lazy eye and, in my mind, I kept hearing that night’s news report about the wonky guy killing the blog writer. I told Slim and Darren that he was making me nervous. “What the hell are you talking about?” they said, “You’ve got a lazy eye, too.” It’s true. I gave wonky guy the once over and saw my own reflection staring back at me. I guess the person I was most worried about going postal was me. I finished the bullets and got the hell out of dodge.
“You were scared because you’re a fearful person,” said Gun Guy when I called him the next day to tell him how it went. “Look, I don’t really know you but you called so I’ll tell you what I think. If you look hard enough, everything is scary. Even you. So why’re ya looking so hard?" Gulp. For someone who doesn’t know me, he sure does know me. “So, is this gonna be a regular thing now,” he asked, “the phone calls and the updates?” I told him I just had a few questions. He said, “Shoot.” Oh, Gun Guy, you’re funny.
I asked him if it wouldn’t be safer to have individual rooms instead of a public one. He said, “Look, If you’re a bad guy and you’re looking for mayhem, where are you gonna go?” I told him I didn’t know. “McDonalds,” he said. “That’s where you’re headed. You want to shoot up the place but you don’t want them to shoot back and the fry cook isn’t armed. Even disturbed people aren’t going to go to a shooting range. This place is about neutral destruction but I’ve got six employees with guns and they know how to use them. These psychos might be dumb but they’re not dumb. Know what I mean?” I thought of the sign I had seen at the entrance. “Did you make the sign?” I asked. “Yep,” he said, “I make ‘em all. Laminate them too. People used to come in and pull their guns out of their waistbands like they were just dying to say, “freeze” and I had to stop all that.” I told him it was a great sign. He said, “It’s a sign.”
I asked him what kinds of people usually come in to a gun range. “Everybody,” he said. “I get chefs and designers and cops and musicians and mothers. The world has gone crazy and people come here to relax.” I confessed that I didn’t find it very relaxing. “Let me ask YOU something,” he said. “When you were shooting the .44, what were you thinking about? And don’t say, ‘make my day’ cause that’s annoying.” I told him I was thinking about each of the steps and lining up the shot correctly. “That’s right,” he said, “You weren’t thinking about the rent or the traffic. You were in the moment. That’s relaxing.”
I told him about my mom being a Buddhist and how she’s always extolling the virtues of living in the moment. Maybe firing a gun is the same as meditation? “I can’t talk about Buddha but I can say that I try real hard to make this a safe place for people to blow off steam. I made a sign about it, let me walk over there and I’ll read it to you.” Sure enough, the sign stressed the importance of safety and fun and customer service. He genuinely wants people to have an outlet for their frustration and he wants me to come back and give it another shot. “I think I’d rather shoot outdoors,” I say. “Who wouldn’t?” he said.
I asked him why he’s never there in the afternoons. “Cause I don’t like to mingle with the customers. Not anymore. I’m 63 and I’ve met enough people. I come in every morning and sweep and take care of whatever needs taking care of and then I go home and put on my shorts and watch TV. Mostly, I just try to keep off the freeway cause nobody knows how to drive anymore.”
He says, “I know you’re young (bless his heart) so maybe you won’t get this, but I go to Costco on Monday mornings because it’s quiet. Sometimes I go on a Friday and that’s always a mistake because it’s packed. I see the old, retired people there on Fridays and tell them they should go on Mondays. I have earned the quiet cause I did all my scary stuff but you’re still a Friday Costco person. You need to earn your stripes.”
I tell him I will come back, that even though it was scary, when I left, I felt totally high and alive. When I got outside all of the angles were sharper and the sun was brighter. I couldn't really explain it - just that everything suddenly felt possible. “Listen, shooting a gun can be scary so there’s nothing wrong with you for feeling that way but isn’t doing scary stuff the whole point of your blog?” I say yes and that the feeling I had afterward is what I want more of.” He says, “Well, then, what’s the next challenge?”
I tell him about having to get a job and maybe starting to date again. He says, “Those aren’t challenges – that’s just living. What’re you gonna do that everybody else isn’t already doing?” I say, “Well I’ve always wanted to be a singer. Maybe I’ll take some lessons and sing in public or something.” He says, “Now we’re talking. Look, I got a crack in the men’s toilet and I have to fix it.” I wish him luck and he says, “I don’t need luck, I just need a wrench.” I say, “Bye, Gun Guy and thank you.” He says, “Learn how to sing and stay off the freeway. You’ll be fine.”
She had a point. Our family has a flair for dramatics, bordering on the Victorian, and we fight regularly. The wisdom of putting guns into the hands of people who have wanted to kill me (and each other) on more than one occasion suddenly felt very shaky but I hadn’t been able to convince anyone else to go. I said, “Look, if we’re gonna blow each other’s brains out, better we do it at a Shooting range than at Christmas.” She was quiet for a second and then said, “That’s valid. Alright. Call me when you guys are done.”
In the end, our folks bowed out. They were happy puttering at the house and beaming at the neighbors and didn’t want to interrupt their flow. Plus, naturally, they were fighting. He would hover over her and fret about the way she was laying the patio stones and then she would hover over him and fret about how much mortar he was mixing. “Probably best you don’t come,” Slim said to them as we made our way down the driveway. “It’ll be too tempting.”
The LA Gun club is located inside a converted warehouse in - you guessed it - the Fashion District. I ran inside and immediately scanned the room for Gun Guy, but he wasn’t there. An armed employee named Junior offered his assistance, and we took it, but I was cranky about Gun Guy not being there and made a mental note to pout about it later. After 15 minutes of instruction, Junior filled our baskets with the guns we had chosen, plus ammo, safety goggles and headphones. He pulled out paper targets depicting everything from the classic graph outline to photos of bad guys hiding behind trucks and masked intruders crouching in corners. They were really creepy. I picked the classic, in green, cause it matched my eye shadow. Junior pointed towards a long, narrow room divided by partitions. “Have fun,” he said.
I assumed, because of some random Charlie’s Angels flashbacks, that we would be in our own individual booths (and that I would, magically, be wearing a policewoman uniform) but we were all jumbled up together in one room and that upped the stakes. There were maybe 15 other people shooting guns and rifles right next to us and I stopped being worried about Slim getting revenge for the countless times I’ve pissed her off and started worrying about the strangers. Everyone else saw a nice couple on a date and some executives doing corporate building but I saw highly trained assassins who had recently quit smoking and were just looking for an excuse. I walked to the far end of the room.
It’s been sign-of-the-apocalypse hot in LA so the room was sweltering and really, really loud. Even with the headphones on, I jumped through my skin every time someone fired their gun, as if I had completely forgotten where I was. I was a wreck but I was also determined to finish the challenge so, with sweaty and shaking hands, I loaded the .44 Magnum, aimed at the paper target, and fired. Having the gun in my hand, loading it and firing it, made me feel powerful, sexy as hell, AND completely out of control. I felt like a total bad ass that no one should ever consider fucking with but also like a terrible mistake had been made and that I should never have been allowed to hold something that might do grave bodily damage. Turns out, I was the one who was tempted. Who knew that NOT killing someone would be the real challenge? You know, I’ve been tense.
While Slim and Darren traded weapons and notes, I took a second to step back and take in my surroundings. I watched the strangers, stealth-style, and noticed that one looked a little wonky, probably on account of his lazy eye and, in my mind, I kept hearing that night’s news report about the wonky guy killing the blog writer. I told Slim and Darren that he was making me nervous. “What the hell are you talking about?” they said, “You’ve got a lazy eye, too.” It’s true. I gave wonky guy the once over and saw my own reflection staring back at me. I guess the person I was most worried about going postal was me. I finished the bullets and got the hell out of dodge.
“You were scared because you’re a fearful person,” said Gun Guy when I called him the next day to tell him how it went. “Look, I don’t really know you but you called so I’ll tell you what I think. If you look hard enough, everything is scary. Even you. So why’re ya looking so hard?" Gulp. For someone who doesn’t know me, he sure does know me. “So, is this gonna be a regular thing now,” he asked, “the phone calls and the updates?” I told him I just had a few questions. He said, “Shoot.” Oh, Gun Guy, you’re funny.
I asked him if it wouldn’t be safer to have individual rooms instead of a public one. He said, “Look, If you’re a bad guy and you’re looking for mayhem, where are you gonna go?” I told him I didn’t know. “McDonalds,” he said. “That’s where you’re headed. You want to shoot up the place but you don’t want them to shoot back and the fry cook isn’t armed. Even disturbed people aren’t going to go to a shooting range. This place is about neutral destruction but I’ve got six employees with guns and they know how to use them. These psychos might be dumb but they’re not dumb. Know what I mean?” I thought of the sign I had seen at the entrance. “Did you make the sign?” I asked. “Yep,” he said, “I make ‘em all. Laminate them too. People used to come in and pull their guns out of their waistbands like they were just dying to say, “freeze” and I had to stop all that.” I told him it was a great sign. He said, “It’s a sign.”
I asked him what kinds of people usually come in to a gun range. “Everybody,” he said. “I get chefs and designers and cops and musicians and mothers. The world has gone crazy and people come here to relax.” I confessed that I didn’t find it very relaxing. “Let me ask YOU something,” he said. “When you were shooting the .44, what were you thinking about? And don’t say, ‘make my day’ cause that’s annoying.” I told him I was thinking about each of the steps and lining up the shot correctly. “That’s right,” he said, “You weren’t thinking about the rent or the traffic. You were in the moment. That’s relaxing.”
I told him about my mom being a Buddhist and how she’s always extolling the virtues of living in the moment. Maybe firing a gun is the same as meditation? “I can’t talk about Buddha but I can say that I try real hard to make this a safe place for people to blow off steam. I made a sign about it, let me walk over there and I’ll read it to you.” Sure enough, the sign stressed the importance of safety and fun and customer service. He genuinely wants people to have an outlet for their frustration and he wants me to come back and give it another shot. “I think I’d rather shoot outdoors,” I say. “Who wouldn’t?” he said.
I asked him why he’s never there in the afternoons. “Cause I don’t like to mingle with the customers. Not anymore. I’m 63 and I’ve met enough people. I come in every morning and sweep and take care of whatever needs taking care of and then I go home and put on my shorts and watch TV. Mostly, I just try to keep off the freeway cause nobody knows how to drive anymore.”
He says, “I know you’re young (bless his heart) so maybe you won’t get this, but I go to Costco on Monday mornings because it’s quiet. Sometimes I go on a Friday and that’s always a mistake because it’s packed. I see the old, retired people there on Fridays and tell them they should go on Mondays. I have earned the quiet cause I did all my scary stuff but you’re still a Friday Costco person. You need to earn your stripes.”
I tell him I will come back, that even though it was scary, when I left, I felt totally high and alive. When I got outside all of the angles were sharper and the sun was brighter. I couldn't really explain it - just that everything suddenly felt possible. “Listen, shooting a gun can be scary so there’s nothing wrong with you for feeling that way but isn’t doing scary stuff the whole point of your blog?” I say yes and that the feeling I had afterward is what I want more of.” He says, “Well, then, what’s the next challenge?”
I tell him about having to get a job and maybe starting to date again. He says, “Those aren’t challenges – that’s just living. What’re you gonna do that everybody else isn’t already doing?” I say, “Well I’ve always wanted to be a singer. Maybe I’ll take some lessons and sing in public or something.” He says, “Now we’re talking. Look, I got a crack in the men’s toilet and I have to fix it.” I wish him luck and he says, “I don’t need luck, I just need a wrench.” I say, “Bye, Gun Guy and thank you.” He says, “Learn how to sing and stay off the freeway. You’ll be fine.”
