It was 97 degrees in Charlotte that day, but the air in the gun shop was meat-locker cold. I hated this about living down south. As soon as the temperature reached 85 degrees, around mid-May, folks in every home, restaurant, mall, and office building felt it was their national duty to wage war against the heat. The thermostats were “set to stun” and a wall of icy air hit you as soon as you entered any building. They’d even hermetically seal themselves in their cars and crank the air. I often wondered if the extreme cold was the only way you could keep some of those fat fuckers cool after the long waddle from the parking lot.
Wes went to the counter, and I followed behind. When I was with Wes, I was never afraid of anything. Except Wes. The former Army Ranger was sweet on me and I knew that he would never let a hair on my head get mussed. This had been enormously comforting in the beginning, but became less so when he asked me to quit telling stories that involved my boyfriend, because, “I do not like him; I…mean him no harm, but I don't like him.” Despite this over-fondness and the warning to choose my topics of conversation carfully, I remained his student because he could put fifteen bullets through a target, one right on top of the next. At the counter, we picked up 'eyes' and 'ears', targets and ammo, and surrendered our driver’s licenses to the man behind the counter.
Donning our ear protection, we walked through the store, and into the range at back. Despite the chilly front shop, the range was warmer. Thousands of tiny explosions will do that.
“Remember what I taught ‘ya. Make it safe, load your clip, find your centre, and when you’re ready…” I put on my goggles. Outside of this place, my 25-year-old self would bounce around and tease Wes every chance I got. Here, his word was law. I took out my Ruger, and did as he instructed, keeping my weapon pointing down range. He had taught me never to break the plane; meaning never point the muzzle of your gun anywhere but down range.
I slowed my breathing and went through clip after clip. My focus on the target never wavered. My concentration, more than my bullets, burned holes in paper man after paper man. I loved the force of it, the strain of it, the sound of spent brass bouncing around me. Then, I felt it, the burning against my skin.
I was hot and my goggles had slipped down my nose some. A stray casing had bounced off the wall beside me, slipped between my face and my goggles and was burning into the top of my cheek. Without thinking, I flicked on my safety, put down my gun, and removed my glasses in the space of five seconds. Wes checked to make sure I was ok and then smiled at me and said, “You'll have a scar but you never broke the plane, never panicked. That’s m’girl.”
When we were done, a hundred rounds or so later, I said good night to Wes and drove off home, windows open, blasting the A/C.
