Twittering

I Can't Even Shoot Straight

        Week Nine of the Citizen’s Police Academy, found me shooting my first gun. They wanted us to understand exactly how difficult it is to shoot a gun, and that it’s not really the preferred method to handle a situation. After a one-hour gun orientation, they took us to the basement of the police station, where there is an indoor firing range.
        “I’m kind of nervous,” I said, turning to Misty Dawn. On the first night of our weekly class, Misty Dawn, a thin, fashion-conscious divorced mother was horrified to think we would all be given the opportunity to not only handle, but also shoot a gun. I mean, she said, her arms flailing in the air, like what if we forget that we have a gun in our hands?
        “You’re nervous? I’m nervous too,” Misty Dawn answered. “I mean, after my son--you know he’s a cop--after my son showed me the video of the guy dying from the gunshot wounds, I mean, like, jeeze.”
        Her fear was incapacitating her cognitive senses, preventing her from talking in complete sentences. I shuddered.
        “Go ahead and put on the ear protection and some safety glasses,” our Hot Cop instructor said. He has an ass built like a cocktail shelf, and when I find myself bored, I catch myself gazing at it, wondering what size underwear would be necessary to contain it all--it really is a work worthy of being wrapped by Christo and Jeanne-Claude.
        Misty Dawn and I head over to the work bench and pick up the glasses and headphone style ear protection.
        “I like those in black on you,” I said to Misty Dawn.
        “Oh, thank you.” She strikes a pose.
        “No, really, it’s very slimming.”
        “Ohhh, aren’t you sweet!?”
        We were told to go to a shooting stall and pick up the gun. We would try it first with dummy bullets before loading with real bullets. Misty Dawn went to the left of me, and Hot Cop stood right behind both of us to help us if we needed it. I had in my hands a brand new Sig Sauer P220 .45ACP. I didn’t really know which hand to hold it in. Hot Cop approached, “Pick it up with the hand you throw a ball with.”
        I spun around, and shot him a glare. “Like I throw.”
        “Okay,” he said. He was able to maintain a professional face, but had he been drinking milk, it would be flying out his nose. “Umm, whatever just feels right, just put it in that hand.”
        We loaded our weapons, and his hands were on my hands, helping to guide the fake bullets in. “That’s good,” he’d say. “Just like that.”
        “Okay, now get your sight on target... remember, finger off the trigger until you’re sure of the target, and just pop one off.”
        When we were comfortable with the feel of the gun in our hands, we loaded them with real bullets.
        Once I loaded the weapon and had fired off a round, shooting a hole in the head of the target, I had an absolute thrill. My palms were sweaty, my heart was racing, and my mouth, dry. However, the adrenalin rush of tingling sensation was not from pulling the trigger, rather from the Hot Cop standing behind me, his arms running along my biceps and triceps, guiding me into the proper form. With the ear protection on, it sounded as if his every word was a whisper in my ear. As I fired off round after round, I slowly dropped into poor form, only to have the Hot Cop correct me.
        “Sorry,” I’d say.
        “It’s okay. You’re doing fine.”
        Two magazines later, I set the gun down, took off my safety glasses and goggles, and ran my hands through my hair like I had just washed with Herbal Essence. “Whew!” I let out an exhilarating sigh.
        “Did you like it?” Misty Dawn asked me.
        “Oh, yes.”
        “I got all distracted and disoriented. I couldn’t even count the rounds.”
        “You were real convincing standing there with that gun, though.”
        “Really?”
        “Yes. I’ve seen a woman like you on Lifetime before.”