Bullseye

by afatpurplefig

Texas is home to a range of ‘big things’, a quirk which I had once seen as being quintessentially Australian (The Big Prawn, anyone?). The world’s biggest pecan is here, as is an oversized bowie knife, and a pair of 33-feet-tall cowboy boots, which can be found in San Antonio. Some ‘biggests’ are of questionable appeal, such as the world’s largest convenience store and longest car wash, and other honours are downright dubious. For instance, Texas easily wins the race for state executions, and it boasts the highest number of registered firearms in the country, which sounds worse than it is (is that possible?), given they have a population of 30 million.

The slogan at The Range, in Austin – which is, you guessed it, a shooting range – is ‘Do The Texan Thing‘, and we plan to do just that. I mean, I have made the booking, but am still mulling over my reservations. I know it’s something Kitty will enjoy, which motivated the choice in the first place, but I’m not sure if I can call myself a critic of the USA’s gun laws and still learn how to shoot a Glock 17 (okay, okay…and a semi-automatic AR-15). I guess I will have to think more on that one later.

We pull up in a carpark full of trucks, and see a couple of guys walking by with suitcases, into which they have presumably packed their own weapons. Kitty and I give each other an I-can’t-believe-we’re-doing-this expression, and head on in

Once inside, we sign waivers (I-won’t-shoot-anyone-and-I-won’t-blame-you-if-they-shoot-me) amidst sizeable groups of gung-ho blokes. Our instructor, David, whose easygoing manner makes him immediately likeable, gives us a bemused smile and indicates that we should follow him into a training room. He has a trolley with the weapons laid out, and proceeds to give us a patient and informative handling demonstration. It turns out they don’t have any Glock 17s, so we are using a Glock 19 instead.

‘This is a great weapon,‘ he tells us, ‘it’s the one I carry every day.‘

(Like, every day? Everywhere you go? Seriously?)

Suitably educated, we select our paper targets (both opting for ‘classic bullseye human’), layer our earplugs and noise protection ear muffs, and pass through a sealed sound booth, before entering the range itself. Even muffled, the sound inside is thunderous.

Kitty is quickest off the mark when David asks, ‘Who’s first?‘ so I step up, point to the Glock and get to it.

Finger on the trigger, eye ‘sitting the egg in the basket’, the moment swells. David’s description – the first shot might seem harder than you expected, but as time goes on, it will seem easier – does not fill me with confidence, but I am nothing, if not foolhardy.

It is a strange feeling, taking the shots – like placing myself within the reel of countless on-screen firings. ‘So this is what it feels like,‘ I think to myself. Soon, I lose track of the number of bullets, and focus instead on trying to hit the bullseye. My holes are clustered, but mostly sit below the red centre. When the magazine is empty, David brings the sheet forward. ‘He’s having a bad day,‘ he shouts, with a smile.

Next, Kitty is up. She’s a competitive little nugget, and approaches with gusto. Here she is, making short work of her first magazine.

After a couple of magazines each, we move onto the AR-15, which, I am soon to learn, is a whole different ballgame. At first, I can’t position myself to even see the small, red bullseye through the sight. David suggests switching hands, and later explains it has to do with eye dominance, as opposed to that of hands. It’s a vast improvement. I’m still hunched over it, but it works.

Every shot feels like a huge explosion of power…which it is, I suppose. I think to myself, ‘that noise is like a gunshot’, before immediately realising that’s because it is. I notice the smell of burning and hot metal, as I focus on staying still in the moment that immediately follows the pulling of the trigger. It’s tough, because it’s such a jarring eruption. The barrel gradually heats up, threatening to burn my hand.

I’m surprised when I see the holes in the paper, much smaller and neater than those from the Glock. ‘This bullet is smaller,’ David explains, ‘and much faster.’

Kitty manages a natural-looking stance, to no-one’s surprise. On her second magazine, she fires them off rapidly, one after another, until it’s empty. David turns around and gives me an ‘okay, I see how it is’ glance. I don’t know how she can reel off so many of the shots that demanded I steel myself first.

‘I can’t believe you haven’t been shooting before,’ David tells me later, looking over my target, ‘this is really good.’ Perhaps it’s flattery, but I do have to say, my shots are clumped very closely together.

He races off to get a survey, as we wash the smell of gunpowder off our hands. I struggle to write – my hands aren’t so much shaking, but in shock, and can’t seem to remember how to move.

After lauding our terrific instructor, I write, almost illegibly, ‘Thank you. This was a cool activity for a couple of visiting Aussies.’

And it was…I think?