Heroes don’t Flinch

A late-life lesson in pistol basics 

I had never touched a gun when I walked into the TNT Shooting Range. The name seemed apt. As my pistol teacher, Patrick, would explain, “When you shoot a gun, you hold an explosion in your hand.” I imagined heat and smoke but had no idea what it was really like.

Photo by Tien Vu Ngoc, Unsplash

Jolene, the rough-shod hero of the novel I was drafting, knew all about firearms. In a climactic moment, she would shoot her dad’s revolver. I needed sensory details to describe her experience. That’s why I had shelled out $75 for the evening class on “Pistol Basics.”

The heavy glass door opened into a spacious lobby where several customers were examining guns at a long counter. The wall behind was entirely covered by a glass case that displayed a huge array of firearms. Pistols large and small, semi-automatics, and long rifles — all built to kill.

The place was bustling. As I crossed the threshold, the man behind the counter waved me towards a computer kiosk. All I had to do was enter my birthday — not as easy as it sounds. Scrolling past all those years, I wondered what I was doing so far outside my comfort zone.

When I finished, a petite young woman stepped forward and called my name. She reminded me of a nurse in my doctor’s office. She ushered me through a heavy door and I jumped at a volley of gunshots — much louder than I expected

A Gun in the Preschool

Shortly after my son, Nathan, was born, I learned a chilling statistic: one in three homes in our county housed a gun. I was terrified when our local news reported that a toddler had been killed by his older brother. Some idiot left a loaded gun in the living room. I warned my four-year-old that, if he ever saw one, he had to leave no matter what. “Just run away as fast as you can,” I said. “Guns are dangerous. They kill people.”

I taught him well. A few weeks later, a police officer visited Nathan’s preschool class. When he pulled his gun out to show the children, my son screamed bloody murder and ran from the classroom.

~ ~ ~

The classroom door opened to a wall of backs. Two men and two women stood fumbling with the semi-automatic weapons in their hands. No one turned around. Patrick sat at the front wearing a huge black cowboy hat, ponytail, and well-trimmed full beard. He waved me in with what could have been either a smile or a sneer.

My classmates were “racking the slide” much less smoothly than the detectives on TV. Racking the slide of a semi-automatic after a shot moves a new bullet into the chamber. If done improperly, there is some chance a round will explode in the gun. “That’s how people lose a finger,” Patrick warned. No wonder they didn’t turn around.

Photo by Flavia Gava, Unsplash

When he sent me back to the lobby to fetch a weapon, I yet again questioned the sanity of this operation. But I bellied up to the counter, where a bland man asked, “What caliber do you want?”

“The smallest,” I whimpered.

“That would be a 22.”

“OK,” I said. “Do you have any revolvers?”

He pulled out a Smith and Wesson and said, “This is Model 617. It holds 10 rounds in its cylinder,” as if that was a good thing. Anyway, it looked just like the guns on Bonanza.

He put it into my hand, pointing down. I wasn’t prepared for the cold weight of steel but the rubberized grip fit perfectly in my palm. “Wow,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s heavy. Sure you don’t want a semi-automatic?”

“I’m sure.” It had to be a revolver. Jolene’s dad gave her his old revolver. In the key scene the gun malfunctions. With all more moving parts, revolvers are more likely to jam or misfire. Besides, they look neat.

When I got back to the classroom, with my revolver, ear protection, and a box of ammunition, Patrick was lecturing on “Legalities;” when you can and can’t shoot someone and get away with it.

Every few minutes, he asked “Any questions?” I had a ton. I’d sift through and choose one that wasn’t too silly. No one else asked questions. My classmates weren’t there to talk. They were there to shoot.

Patrick taught us a two-handed grip and demonstrated the proper posture for shooting: stable feet hip-distance apart, the foot opposite your dominant hand (which you’ll use to pull the trigger) should be a little forward. Lean forward, not back. Square your shoulders. We learned to focus through the front sight and pull the trigger with smooth straight consistent pressure using the bony part of the knuckle.

Photo by Thomas Tucker, Unsplash

The gun felt familiar now, an extension of my intention.

Any more questions?” Patrick looked straight at me. I shook my head. The lecture was over. When it was time to go shoot, my heart jumped into my throat. Patrick held the door while the five of us silently trickled out. As we marched down the long hall, I tried to get a conversation started to ease my sense of impending doom. Nothing doing. My classmates wouldn’t even meet my eye.

At tidy intervals along the hall, heavy wood doors opened onto small galleys facing the shooting range. A few were open to reveal people blasting away at dangling targets. Despite my bulky ear protection, I jumped at the sound of gunfire. Sometimes the shots came fast and furious. Other times they just popped along at a leisurely pace.

Patrick ushered us into our standing-room-only space and one by one we laid our guns on the counter facing the range. The outline of a human head, neck, and torso hung from a rack in the ceiling. As I stared at the target, Patrick slid the image closer with his remote. He explained that we would shoot five rounds at the forehead, stop for feedback, then shoot five more. 

An Explosion in my Hand

“Who wants to go first?” He asked.

The middle-aged guy in camo stepped forward and Patrick slid the target about 10 feet away. The man picked up his weapon like he knew what he was doing. After five explosions, Patrick slid the target back in and pointed out the holes trickling down to the chest. “The flinch makes your shot go down like that. It’s human nature; goes away with practice.” 

I wasn’t sure I wanted my human nature to go away but it’s tough times in America these days.

Here,” Patrick slid the target back. “Try it again.” After the next batch of shots, he said, “You’re still flinching but you’ll be fine with more practice. Who’s next?”

The 20-something woman with a pierced nose and violet-black hair stepped forward.

Her first five rounds landed close to the stomach. This time, Patrick’s flinch pep talk was more gentle, “That’s OK. You’re doing good. That flinch is natural. All you need is practice.”

Before he could ask for a volunteer, I lunged forward, beating out the scrawny blond guy by half a second. My fingers shook as I fumbled the small bullets into the holes of the cylinder — ten of them, one by one, with Patrick watching every move. What on earth was I doing? I knew how dangerous a gun could be yet here I was, cradling one in my hand. The impulse to run made my feet itch.

But I was not a quitter. I took a deep breath and assumed the position. The trigger was hard to squeeze. My finger joint was screaming by the time the bullet fired with a sharp crack. There was no recoil as my first shot zinged against the ceiling. No smoke, either. It all happened so fast.

As the steel warmed up in my hand, it generated a sense of effortless confidence and power.

Patrick stopped me before I could line up another shot. “That double-action trigger’s going to be hard to pull.” He showed me how to pull the hammer back with my thumb. “That’ll make the trigger pull lighter.” My next two shots missed the target altogether.

Patrick stopped me again. “Focus on the front sight.” He reminded me. “Get it into the middle of the back sight.” Oh. I forgot about the back sight. “Now put your target in the middle of both.” Sounds easy, but my sights kept wiggling. Smooth and steady, I reminded myself. When I pulled the trigger, my joint screamed with arthritis pain. The shot went wild.

I breathed deep pushing down my dismay but my sights kept shaking. Then it came to me: Jolene wouldn’t give up. She’d just grit her teeth and shoot the damn thing. I tightened my grip on the revolver and pulled my shoulders away from my ears. A soft rustle caught my attention. Were my classmates getting impatient? It sounded more like the door sliding open.

Suddenly, my saggy muscles became taut, stringy . . . like Jolene’s. My stance widened and a pair of snakeskin boots replaced my tennis shoes. My grip on the gun tightened with her resolve.

“Am I ever glad to see you,” I whispered.

She smirked.

Firmly centered, I leaned forward and aimed at the kidnapper in my story with every intention of killing him. My finger slowly and firmly pulled the trigger.

When Patrick brought the target to the counter, Jolene’s shots clustered within 8 inches of dead center on the forehead.

“Much improved,” He said. “Now let’s see you do ten more.”

An Extension of my Intention

This time, Jolene and I rose to the challenge. Free of arthritis, my fingers moved with an easy grace, sliding each bullet into place without a hint of fumble. I shot five, then paused. The gun felt familiar now, an extension of my intention. I breathed deep and shot the rest. As the steel warmed up in my hand, it generated a sense of effortless confidence and power. I lost count of the bullets and, with my last smooth and steady pull on the trigger, the revolver gave a brief click. It was empty. 

When the target slid back in, the circle of holes was even tighter.“Good job,” Patrick said.

Walking back to my place by the door, I felt a quiet glow, maybe even a hint of swagger.

When the scrawny guy stepped up with his dad’s big service weapon, I found myself mentally correcting his stance, urging him to lean forward a little. But he stayed on his back foot and his shots trickled down towards the belly button.

“You better watch that flinch,” Patrick warned. “It’s going to take practice, but you’ll get there.”

The last one up was a middle-aged woman with big hair. Her shots trailed from above the target to its belly button. The rest of us nodded knowingly as Patrick repeated his heart-warming flinch lecture. “Perfectly natural. Just takes practice. That’s key.”

We marched back down the hall and gathered our things in the classroom. My classmates still avoided eye contact as they drifted out of the room, but now I didn’t mind.

After they left, Patrick flopped into his chair at the front of the room.

“Thanks, I said. That was a great class. I can’t wait to tell my son about it. Could you send me your slides?”

He seemed surprised.

“I’m doing research for a book. I want to be sure to remember your lectures.”

“Neat,” he said, with a slow grin. “So, will I be in the book?”

“Oh no, this is just a novel.”

“Hmmm.” He wrinkled his brow. “Seems to me that’s a pretty big deal. I couldn’t write a novel.”

“You never know. Someday you might give it a try. I mean, I never thought I’d be shooting a gun.”

“You know, you’re a natural.”

“Wow. No. That wasn’t me . . .” I ducked my head to write my email address on a postcard.

“Say.” He cleared his throat as I handed it to him. “My wife and I are expecting our first. It’s a boy.” His eyes crinkled with a wide grin.

“Wow. That’s wonderful. My son’s got a baby boy. Congratulations. You’re going to have so much fun.”

“Well, I hope your son teaches his boy gun safety. Could save the kid’s life.”

It was hard to keep my face straight, but I had to agree.

“You can keep the ammo,” he went on. “And hey, give me a call when you and your son are ready to come in for a private lesson.”

“We might just do that.” I could almost see myself striding through the classroom door with Nathan at my side.

As I walked through the lobby, a couple with matching camo attire and gun cases came in holding hands — date night at the firing range. There might be a story in that.

On the long walk through the parking lot, I pumped my fist. “Yes!” I had done it. I had actually fired a gun.

A stern voice in my head reminded me that America has more weapons than people. 

“But it really was fun.” I replied.

The voice said, “Besides that, people who live with firearms are much more likely to be hurt or killed by a gun.”

“OK. OK. Enough. I won’t go out and buy one.” My fingers were crossed. I might not ever buy one, but I might just take another lesson.

Something had shifted. My fear had given way. I wasn’t ready to join the NRA but I grasped the appeal of holding an explosion in your hand.

I puzzled over what this could mean — until Jolene slapped me on the rump and whispered, “Get back to work, kid.” I couldn’t wait.