sadly, You bet. By l{aten llafto

In thesportof shooting,proficienry
meansnot onlywinnirg, but getting
goodat killirg.
wherethe questionis, Do I want
to do this?andthe answeris, a little
sadly,Youbet. Byl{aten
llafto
Piloto0ntP[$
il J01t
0rPrT Hs pIsrol
RANGE
AT GUNSITE is Juanita,Bowman'swife, one of
Ranchhasspacesfor l2papertar- only four women enrolled in Gen-
gets, arrangedagainsta sandy
eralPistol.She'sa tiny womanwith
berm. The targetsare roughly
armsof steeland a down-homeac-
human-shaped-a largesquareis
cent.When sheandJohnwerefint
the torso;a smallerone aboveit,
married,she was afraid of guns;
the head.Besidethe rangeis a
when she dusted the fumiture she
flagpolewith a tattered red flag
steeredhis pistolsout of the way
hanginglimp in the heat.The flag
with a pencil.Juanitahas been
is a warning:This rangeis hot.
through GeneralPistol once al-
John Bowman, the rangemas-
readyand packsa big ol'Colt.45
ter for GeneralPistol250,a weeklong coursein "the technique of
casings.They zapme on the neclq
modern pistolcraft,"dividesthe
find their way down my T:shirt.
19 of us into two relaysand as-
The first time this happens-on
signstargets.These will be our
the fint shotof the fint aftemoon-
positionsfor the entire week. I
I jump and shriek. By the end of
havetargetnumber three.Lucky.
the week I wont evennotice.
I hope.I am easilythe leastexperiencedshooterin the class.
To my left, at targetnumbernvq
that spitsout burningaluminum
Gunsite Training Center at
Gunsite Ranch, not far from
Paulden, Aizona, is the Harvard
----,e'*y
w
At Gunsite,you shoot:
the welcomeat the end
ofthe inauspiciousapproach(above).Hiding
in the simulatorsareeffi giesof pistol-packing
thugs (right), but not
always-sometimesthe
thug is licking an ice
creamcone.
r22
ofshootingschools.There area dozenor so
such schoolsaroundthe country,but Gunsite is the most famous,respectedworldwide for the quality of its instructionand its
facilities, a thousandacresthat include 28
pistol, rifle, and shotgun rangesas well as
nine outdoorand three indoor simulators.
It's perhapsthe ultimate place to get a
good look at marksmanship,which enjoys
a p e c u l i a r s t a t u s a m o n g s p o r t s .R o c k
climbing and whitewater kayaking are potentially lethal, of course.But that's not
what they'refor In shooting,achieving
proficiencymeans not only winning
medals,but getting good at killing.
The approachto Gunsite is inauspicious.Drive 25 miles north from Prescott
on Highway 69-passing Mike and
Marry's Junk, PrescottLivestock Auction,
and The Pour House Cocktails,a mean
building painted bright green-and turn
left onto the corrugatedroadbetween mile
markers335 and 336. Get ready to have
your molarsjarred,your bladderjounced
around.The roadis so dusry that you have
to useyour windshieldwipers.
The main compoundis
marked with anotherflagpole and a wooden sign:
WELCOMETO GUNSITE
TRAINING
cpNtnn. There
is a handfulof low wooden
buildings,in the samearchitectural style as The
Pour HouseCocktails.You
could well be in sub-Saharan Africa.The Harvardof
shootingschoolslooksnothBe sure of your targetl the anatomyof an i n g l i k e a s c h o o l ,a n d i t s
campusis definitelynot laid
adversary(top). Gunsite,respectedworldout aroundHarvardYard.
wide for the quality of its instruction and its
facilities,drawsa far-flung clientele(above). I welx INTo rHE clAssroom on the first morninp
with my gun in a box. Everyone else has
their leather strappedon, pistols cocked
and locked, magazinesstuffed with ammo,
eagerto get at it. My box, shippedvia UPS
to the Gunsitegunsmithby my meticulous
father,glistenswith packingtape.I spenda
good 15 minutes hackingat it with the fish
scalerof my Swissfumy knife-the easiest
bladeto openunder pressure-before I extract,from beneathtightlywadded newspaper and an annoyingquantiry of sryrofoam
peanuts,the Colt .45 I'll be using for the
week. It's the same .45 that my father
loanedme 14yearsagofor an intensiveoneday shootingcourseoffered through the
localpolicedepartment.
My father is an expert marksman.He's
taken coursesat the International Shootist's
OCTOBER1994. OUTSIDE
Institute, at the Lethal Force Institute
(where he was Top Gun), at Gunsite. He's
taught defensive shooting at a college in
Irvine, California, and recently, at age 69,
scored 100 out of 100 on his concealedweapons permit exam. The shooting course
was his idea. He paid for it and went along,
standingbehind me with folded armswhile I
put 250 rounds through his gun. After a hundred rounds the instructor pulled him aside
and said that I might be a "natural." At the
end of the day, as a souvenir of my aptitude,
I was given the target to take home.
I liked the experience-the heft of the
weapon, its dark machine smell, the big
boom, the whip of recoil. I liked what
everyone who likes to shoot likes: the feeling of power. But, being barely out of my
teens, I had a dury not to enjoy my farher's
sport as much as I did. For a decade and a
half. I never touched a gun again.
During that period, my attitude toward the
spon that seemed to be in my genes was pollinated by a hardy strain ofdread and heartsickness.In 1989 the young actressRebecca
Schaeffer,a family friend, was murdered in
Los Angeles. Expecting a packagefrom Federal Express, she opened her front door one
hot July morning and was shot once in the
chest by a strangerwho claimed to be in love
with her. I helped pick out the flowers for Rebccca\ casket. Her murderer, now serving a
life sentence without parole, purchased his
.357 Magnum in Arizona,home of Gunsite.
My father, my friend-at best, I'm ambivalent about being here. Then John Bowman strides in. Long of leg, scluareof shoulder, with knife-edge creasesin his Levi's,
he's loud and, like all our instructors,could
probably find work as a stand-up comic.
During the academicyear, he'.san associate
professorof police scienceat the Universiry
of Illinois Police Training Institute, where
he trains SWAT teams and conducts tricky
maneuvers in the politics of academia.
Here at Gunsite he can (and does) make
grand pronouncementsIike "the only cure
for stupidiry is death!" without fear of cen"Don't
sure.
look for too much political correctnesshere," he warns. "Ifyou don't have
a s e n s eo f h u m o r , i t ' s g o i n g t o b e a l o n g
week." By the end of the week, he adds,
"manly
we're all going to be
men."
Before we head to the range,John orders us
to burn into our minds the four iron-clad rules
of gun safery:(1) Every gun is alwaysloaded.
(2) Never let the muzzle cover anything you
are not willing to destroy.(3) Keep your finger
off the trigger until your sighrs are on rhe target. (4) Be sure ofyour target.
He also reminds us to be sure to close the
bathroom door before leaving. Scorpions
Ot.ITSIDE . OCTOBER
1994
andrattlesnakes
havea habitof sneakingin tionally supportive environment."
to escapethe heat ofthe afternoon."You
It's a joke. I think.
haven'tlived,"he says,"until you'veshared
It's also the fork in the road, the concepthe toiletwith a three-footrattlesnake."
tual point where spon shooters and tactical
CutNo vALLEy,
wHEREGLTNsITE
ISLocATed, is nearlya mile high.The air is dry and
clean,the sky a bleached-out
blue. Early
summer temperatureshover between 95
and 100,not particularlyhot, unlessyou're
standingin the sun with three ex-military
men barkingordersat you for hourson end.
In addition to John,there are two other
coaches.HershelDavisis formerCommand
MasterChief Davis,the oldestNavy SEAL
shooters part company.
In the last ten years, shooting has become
a big-money sport, with thousands of dollars to be made by the winners of regional
and national International Pistol Shooting
Confederation matches. At the same time,
competitive shooting has evolved into an
activiry so different from defensive shooring that the rwo are almost unrecognizable
as siblings. It's the difference between an
Indy car racer and a secretary in a Datsun
ever to have served. He's tall, with eyebrows t r y i n g t o e v a d e a c r e e p f o l l o w i n g h e r
that fly up like a schnauzer's,a kaiser mus- through rush-hour traffic. The guns used in
tache, and a penchant for the outrageous competitive shooting resemble nothing
aphorism,which he likes to deliver at the top you'd ever have stashed in the nightstand;
of his lungs. About the female populace of
they're heavy, three to four pounds, some
the closestsmall town to Gunsite Ranch, he with electronic sights bigger rhan rhe pistol
"You
put all the women in Paulden tosays,
itself. Coach Greg describes ir this way:
"Competitive
getherand what d'ya get?A full set of reerh!"
shootersare playing a game.
He's missing pans of fingers on one hand, It's their recreation. Defensive shooters
and his hearine is bad from decadesas an unshoot for one reasonand one reasononlyderwaterdemolitionsexpen. Of his 33 years, not for fun, but for practice. They view rheir
four months, and 23 days as a SEAL-the
gun as a tool. There's a seriousnessof intent
happiesttime of his life-he says,"All I did
that precludes their ever seeing their
was root-toot-loot-shoot. My life has been
weapon as a piece of sporting equipment."
nothing but hurting people and breaking
Still, like anyone else, defensive shooters
stuff. That's what I did. Dorlt be impressed."
like to compete, and so there is the NationBut I am impressed,or perhaps terrified. al Tactical Invitational. In its fourth year,
When Hershel standsbehind me, it's like my
the NTI is not strictly a test of shooring
father times ten breathing down my neck.
abiliry. (The competitors carry specialguns
Luckily, for most of the week, Hershel t h a t f i r e S i m u n i t i o n , p e l l e t s f i l l e d w i t h
will work the otherend of my relay.The inpaint.) What counts is whether you're
"my
"alive"
structor I come to think of as
coach" is
at the end ofa scenarioreconslructthe more normal-seeming Greg Hamilton,
ed from actual documented events.
who was active in the Army's SpecialForces
In one scenario from last year's NTI, for
for five years and now owns and operates example, the competitors had to walk down
his own self-defenseschool,Insights Trainan alley to get to a car. Two assailantsaping Center, near Seattle. By dint of his age, p e a r e d , o n e j u m p i n g o u t f r o m b e h i n d a
29, and the fact he's spent 28 years, four
trash can, the other standing in wait at the
months, and 23 days lessthan Hershel hurtend of the alley. More than a hundred coming people and breaking stuff, he's more ap- petitors went through the alley scenario,
proachable. A freckle-faced redhead, he
and the winner was an athlete who never
tells me he's the touchy-feely coach.When
fired a shot. He read the situation in a split
I ask him the difference between his school second and sprinted away down the alley.
and Gunsite, he says,with a straight face, The "hostiles," as they are called,just stood
"At
Insights, we teach killing in an emothere, mouths agape. The Zenlike lesson is
r23
t h a t t h e t r u l y s u c c e s s f u lt a c t i c a l s h o o t e r
may never need to shrxrtat all.
Ar c uNst't't;. HowEVI.tR, wl.t su(x)'t'.'l'Htl
drills go on from ft:30 in the morning until
five in the evening. John and Greg and Hershel pace up and down behind us. In their
khaki and olive drab, they look like models
in a combat-wearcatalog.They have earplugs
custom-molded for their own ears.Off range,
the earplugs dangle around their necks like
seacreaturescoaxedfrom their shells.
The relays take turns at the line. We find
"make
ready," checking that
our stance.We
"guard
our pistolsare loaded.We assumethe
position," holding our weapons below the
sight line but ready to raise and fire. John
hollers. We fire. We fire one into the body.
We fire one into the head. We fire tw<-rinto
the head, rwo into the body. We do this from
"Remernber!"
three yards, from ten yards.
"Ninery-five percent personal
of
John barks.
confrontations happen at distances of less
than ten yards." I think of Rebecca,still in
her blue bathrobe, answering her front door.
During a brief break, while the other relay
is on the line, I peek at one of the instructors'
clipboards, left beside the water jug in the
range house. The roster lists our names, addresses,makes and models of weapons,occu124
pations, and ages.Dem<-rgraphically,
our class
resembles the cast of Oar Tbwn: a doctor, a
contractor,a salesman,a nurse,an engineer,
an exterminator. There are tvvo bona fide eccentrics:a hollyvood producer who reseml{oa
bles Marlon Brando inhis A1tocalypse
phase,with shavedhead,safarisuit, and gold
monocle, and an East German pastry chef,
now living in Los Angeles,who still mourns
slipping off the safety, my hands greasy
frorn sunscreen,
"Karen!
You're mashing the trigSer!"
Shooting, like tennis and golf, is a psychomotor skill that relies on focus,on giving
full attention to each in a seriesof small, uncomplicated movements at the moment in
which they are happening.As you bring your
pistol up, you allow your focus to shift from
the fall of Richard Nixon. The ages of the
youngest student (a lS-year-old boy here
with his father) and all students over 40 (half
the class)are circled. I think I know what this
means: Those of us in our twenties and thirties are fair game.
We have strips of white tape with our
names on them stuck to the backs of our
caps.This way, our instructorscan personalize their haranguesfrom the get-go.
"Karen!
You're not following through!"
My arms shake with exertion. My hair
itches beneath my cap. My thumb keeps
the target to your front sight, forgetting the
target completely. Once the front sight is
lined up with the back, you don't wait for a
perfect shot. You allow the front sight to drift
around while you apply steady,gentle pressure to the trigger. You don't shoot the gun;
you allow it to go off. The moment the trigger
cracks should always be a surprise. Otherwise, anticipating the blast, you'll involuntarily flinch, and the shot will be low.
The way it's supposed to work will become
clear during Thursday's night exercise.With
Venus rising over the berm behind our tarOC TOBER
1994. OUTS IDE
cial on prayer candles.For 99 cents I buy a
St. Jude, patron of lost causes,and pr,rtit on
the nightstand in my hotel room. As I melt
into sleep, I see a fleeting image of myself
lying prostrate in the dust, hugging Hershel's b<lots,begging him to let me go home.
gets, and not another light for a thousand
acres,I'll stand on the line with the rest of my
relay, peering at where I know my rarget is.
John will give the usual orders: two ro rhe
body from three yards; two to the body from
seven; lwo to the body from ten. Afterward,
we'll shine our flashlights on our targets to
find that almost everyone has gorten "good
paper," the shots clustered in tight groups.
My own cluster will be a nosegay of holes,
edges burnt and shredded,just to the left of
the heart. In the dark, our consciousminds
have nothing to do. Our muscles do all the
work. rhe result of our training.
But that will come later in the week. Now,
afterone panicularlyfrustratingset ofdrillsif I watch my front sight, I cant secm ro press
the trigger;ifI pressthe trigger,I'm so eager
to see how I've done that I forger to follow
through-Juanita sneaksher arm around me
"Don't
and says,
worry. Last year I couldnt
make my head shots and I locked myself in
the bathroom to have a good cry."
"Any
three-foot rarrlersin there?" I ask.
Each of us has a steel box of ammunition
sitting on a table in the range house. In my
box there are 800 rounds. After each exercise we retllrn to the range house to get a sip
of water and to reload. The magazine for a
Colt .45 takes seven bullets. I load and reload all afternoon long and never made a
dent in my ammo. It's like earing an enormous chef salad:You're full long before you
ever get a glimpse of the plate.
Ar NIcH'r; wFt IIAVEHoNtEwoRK.wE AREISsued small practicetargetsand instructed in
"dry
the elaborate ritual of
firing." We are
supposed to set aside a special part of our
hotel room just for this. We are supposedto
126
put all of our ammunition in our suitcaseand
then put the suitcasein a closet.Then we are
supposedto go through the precisemorions
of shooting, only without bullets. Afrerward.
we're supposedto say to ourselves,aloud, "I
am now finished dry firing," and close the
target so as not to be tempred. I think this
must be a directive geared exclusively for
men. I can't imagine ever feeling an over-
Tns NBxr DAy,TITESDA\I
wFt Nlr,tt'l't'AI'THE
range at 8:30 e,.u. It's already 85 degrees.
When I arrive, another student is discreetly
barfing in the shadeof a juniper tree.
We have been issued three red plastic
dummy rounds, which we are instructed to
load into our magazinesat random to force
unexpected malfunctions.John might order
us, for example, to shoot rwo to the body from
ten yards; we might squeeze off one round
and then hear the Second Loudest Sound in
the World: a click instead of the anticipated
boom. (The Loudest Sound in the World is a
boom when you're expecting a click.)
The first time this happens, mosr of us
stareat our gllns in wordlessreproachor whisper, "Oh, shit." Then John or Greg or Hershel swoops down, barking TAP RACK
"Thp"
BANG!TAP RACK BANG!
means
whack the masazine to make sure it'.skrcked
"rack"
securely in the magazine well;
means
rack the slide to clear the dumrny round out
"bang"
of the chamber;
is self-explanatory.
The prrrcessshould uke four seconds,tops.
whclming urge to shoot just becausethere
Whilc the other relay is on thc linc, I banwas a target staring me in the face.
dage my fingers.The choiccs at the store
Anyvay, I skip the homework; instead, I
were either Neon Brights or Beaury and rhe
go downstairs to the hotel bar and order a
Beast. Knowing I'd never hear thc cnd of
scotch on the rocks. The tumbler is as healry B e a u t y a n d t h c B c a s t , I g o t t h e N c o n
asan anvil. My arm shakesasI bring the glass Brights. I need three Outrageous Pinks frrr
to my lips. The crook of my elbow is sore, t h e w e b o f m y s h o o t i n g h a n d . W h c n m y
and a large blister has erupted in the web of
relay is called, I'm the last one back up on
my right hand. My entire body rhrobs from
the line, and no soonerhas John given the
standingrigid on the line, unable to relax.
order to make ready than Hershel descends,
S o m e p e o p l e s u p p o s e d l yf e a r p u b l i c a vulture on carrion. "We allow no pink on
speaking more than death. Shooting in pubche firing range,young lady," he booms.
lic is worse.If you goof up, you not <-rnly
emThe distraction causesme to miss John's
barrassyourself, but you may hurr some- instructions,
which are becorningincreasingbody. You may kill somebody. This is the
ly byzantine. Shoor rwo to the body, reload,
essentialdifference between shooting and, shoot two more to the body. Or, begin wirh
say,tennis or kayaking. tlnlike a racker or a your back to the target, pivot 180 degrees,
paddle, a gun is always unsafe,and you can shoot rwo to the body, reload. "Excuse r.r.re,
never afford to forget it. Fatigue or frustra- John," I say."I missedwhat you said."
"When
tion must not lead to sloppiness.
I say listen up, people, I mean lisAfter my drink I go to a grocery store, ten up, people!"
"I
where I buy some Band-Aids.This being
w a s b e i n g s e x u a l [ y h a r a s s e do v e r
the Catholic Southwest, the store has a speP/easetunt to page 178
OC'roBIlll
1994 . OtJl'SIDE
GUNGAMP/ronpage126
here," I say.
John laughs;a good retort is wonh a few
"We
extra points.But Hershelis too quick.
don't make accusationsof sexualharassment here," he says."We gradeit on a scale
of one to ten."
The drill is this: two to the body, one to
t h e h e a d .I t h a sa S o l d i e ro f F o r t u n i s h
name,the Mozambique.All the trickier
maneuvershavebeenchristenedwith exotic nicknamesthat bring to mind far-flung
Third World outpostsand skinny boys in
tattereduniformswith automaticweapons
slungovertheir shoulders.
The ideabehindthe Mozambiqueis that
two to the body shoulddo it, but if it
doesn't,you must take strictermeasures
and put one between the eyes.If you miss
the headentirely,as somestudentsdo, or
fail to make your shot inside the small rectanglethat representsthe eye area,you are
forcedto step back from the line.
"You'redead!"
"YourpunishJohncrows.
public
humiliation.
ment for being deadis
Stepbac€!"
I expectto spenda lot of time stepping
back from the line. Then somethinghappens.CoachGreg hassuggestedthat I talk
myself through my shot.So,like an idiot, I
chant, "Front sight...p-r-e-s-s...follow
t h r o u g h .F r o n t s i g h t . . . p - r - e - s - s . . . f o l l o w
through." Then, after shifting to make the
head shot, I hear the awful click. I tap, I
rack,and again,"Front sight...p-r-e-s-s...follow through." Even with the malfunction
I've madeboth bodyshots,within an inch of
eachother,and put a hole cleanthroughthe
centerof the head,ashasJuanitabesideme.
"Both the ladieshad malfunctionsand
still managedto make their head shots,"
"You manly men, you're
John announces.
dead.Step bacl!"
I understand,suddenly,that what the instructorshavebeen harpingon all alongis
true: Focusis everythingin shooting.IfI
dont think of RebeccaI can shootwell, or
well enough.The questionis,do I wantto do
this?The answer,at this moment anyvay,
anda linle sadly,isyou bet.I wantto be good.
HAscoME
By wBoNBsoevouR REpERToIRE
to include shootingfrom a bracedknee position at 15 yardsand from a proneposition
at 25. Someof the studentslook like gunslingingrollerskatersin their black plastic
elbow and knee pads.I go without, thinking my Levi's will be enoughprotection.
The drill for proneconsistsof dropping
to your kneeswhile drawingyour pistol
and then flopping onto the ground, rolling
O C T O BER
1994. O U T SI DE
yourselfup onto your right side.Your elbowsbecomethe sidesof an equilateraltriangle,your pistol at the apex.It shouldbe
easy.Insteadyou becomeinsecure,you
look at the target instead of your front
sight.At this distanceit's a cinch you'll
senda round into the berm. After the third
drill I notice dropsof blood on the top of
my tennis shoes:scrapedknees to match
my scrapedelbowsand blisteredfingers.
In the morningwe aregiven a reprieve
from the rangein the form ofa lectureon
the combatmindset,the crucialelementof
our training."Good marksmanship,"
John
saysdarkly,"is not evenhalfofit."
Peoplewho forcethemselvesto think the
unthinkable,to preparethemselvesto kill a
midnightintruder,areconsideredby those
of us who like to pretend that this situation
might neverariseto be paranoidor bloodthirsryor nuts.In fact,anyoneat Gunsight
will tell you that'sthe differencebetweena
handgunownerand the opposite-in their
mindstherecanonly be an opposite,there's
no room for someonelike me, the ambivalent-a "gun grabber."The gun owners
like to think they'rerealists.
"Youwill neverwin a fight if you behave
instinctively,"saysJohn."Our instinctis to
flinch, to cowerand coverour heads.The
way to overcomeyour instinctsis to do what
you are trainedto do. When the flag flies,
don'tmistakethat adrenalinedump for fear.
It's your body preparingitself to fight. A
woman can defeat a man with the right
mindset.There arewomenwho cando the
job, and let me tell you, they ain't all got
mustaches."
There is,of course,no realway to practice
"doing the job," but therearesimulators.
The Playhouse
and the Funhousearesquat
cinder-blockbuildingspainted,like everything elsehere,desertbeige.Inside there
arelots of placesfor peopleto hide:comers,
smallrooms.Behind the
closets.staircases.
cornersand insidethe closemarelife-sizeeffigiesof pistol-packing
thugs.But not always.Sometimesthe thug is licking an ice
creamcone.The ideais to shootthe bad
guys,avoidshootingthe rest,and make it to
the endwithoutrunningout of ammunition.
Beforewe are taken through,John instructsus on how to sweepa building.He
backsagainstone wall and creepssideways
towardthe corner,hispistolup besidehisear,
muzzlepointed skyward."This is not the
way to work a corner,"he says."Only stupid
peoplework a cornerthisway,andyou know
what the only cure for stupidiryis. I call it a
Half Sabrina,namedfor my favoriteCharlie's
Angel.A Full Sabrinais both hands."He
bringshis other hand acrosshis chestto grip
OUTSIDE.
OC TOBER
1994
his gun. "Either way,you'relookingat a siruation like this." Around the corner,Hershel
waits.Just asJohn is about to roll himself
around the edge, Hershel nonchalantly
reachesout with one hand and grabsJohn's
gun by the barel, lifting it from his hands.
What we aresupposedto do, accordingto
John,is to usethe angles.Ratherthan hug
the corners,we are supposedto stay as far
away from them as possible.We are supposedto searchsystematically,moving forward in arcsaslargeas the spacewill allow,
checkingeachpotential hiding spacebefore moving on to the next one. It sounds
lesslike tacticsandmorelike planegeometry, a subjectI wasneververy goodat.
It's almostsix in the eveningwhen Hershelfinally takesme throughthe Funhouse.
The late-afternoonsun is low and glary.I've
been sitting in a woodenshelternearby,
waiting. Occasionally,from inside the Funhouse,I've heardBAM-BAM, BAM-BAM.
A small brown snakeuncurlsfrom beneath
somescruband disappearsbehind a rock.
My turn. Hershel shufflesbehind me
with a clipboard,gradingme on everything
from gun handlingand marksmanship
to
my fledgling commandof tactics.I know
immediatelythat this won't be my strong
suit. I managethe cornersOK, but I'm too
slow and hesitant.And I don't have the
heartfor the amateurtheatricsthat seemto
be expectedof us. If we are unsureof our
target,we're supposedto yell something
alongthe linesof "comeon out, shithead!"
I check one room and seea woman'seye
peekingout from behind a trenchcoathung
on a rack.I stop.I standthere.
"What areyou
doingl" asksHershel.
"Waiting for her
to come to me," I say.
This wassomethingwe learnedin the lecture: Alwayslet the intruder cometo you.
"You're gonnahave
to wait a long time
with this one," he says.
We stareat her painted blue eye.
"I'm a pretry patient person,"
I say.
Suddenly,Hershel startsblowing short
toots on a silver whistle that he wearson a
leatherthong aroundhis neck.
"What areyou doing?"I
ask.If I wasone
of his SEALs I'd probablybe punishedfor
impeninence.
"You're
dead,"he says."She'sa slut with
a gun."
"Oh," I say,exhausted."Does that mean
I dont haveto continue?"
"Not that dead.Keep
moving."
But I am that dead.It's alreadya long
week, and I've begun to experiencethe
kind of mental fatiguethat resultsin srupid
mistakes.
All the basicskillsthatwe learned
on the first two daysseemto havesuffocatOUT SID E .
OC T O B E R
1994
ed under the more and more complexdrills
being thrust upon us hourly.Somehow,I'm
back to not knowing how to check to seeif
my gun is loaded.
"loDAy wE
ON pntoRynaoRNrNG
JoHNsAys,
turn up the wick." He beginstiming us on
our schoolexercisesin preparationfor our
marksmanshiptest tomorrow,when we will
be gradedExpert (the "E-ticket,"which is
a l m o s tn e v e r a w a r d e d ) M
, a r k s m a nI ,
Marksman,Certificateof Completion,or
No-Pass.We aretold not to take it seriously,
that beinggradedisjust anotheropportunity to practiceshootingunder stress.
It is no longergoodenoughto makea head
shot;you haveto make it in two seconds,
drawingyour pistolfrom its holster.Youhave
1.5secondsto shoottwo to the body from
sevenyards,two secondsto maketwo to the
bodyfrom tenyards,3.5secondsto maketwo
to the body from 15yardsin a kneelingposition, and an eternityof sevensecondsto
shoottwo to the bodyfrom 25yards,prone.
All week longJohnandHershelandGreg
havewarnedagainstsuccumbingto frustration.Don'tadmirea goodshot,they'vesaid;
don't get discouragedby a bad one. But I
am discouraged.
I'm backto mashingthe
trigger.I'm doing weird things with my
feet, a little shufflein the dust after I've
drawn.I keep forgettingto snick off the
safery.Dumb things,all day long.
On Saturday,I'm awakenedat threein the
morningby the jetliner roarof the hotel airconditioner.
Somethinghasbeenbothering
me the entireweek,and I now know what it
is:I still dont know how Rebeccacouldhave
beensaved.Even if she'dhad all this training, had beenable to make her headshots
undertwo secondsandget goodpaperin the
pitch darkof anfuizonanight, shestill would
neverhavetakena pistolto her front doorat
10:30in the morning.I wouldn't.Nobody
would.Then, speedingto the range,lareas
u s u a l ,I ' m c o n v i n c e dI ' v e l o s t m y m i n d
when,spinningthroughstationson the radio,
I srumbleupon Frank Sinatrabeltingout his
62dsrn4d(-'(If I canmakeit there,I'll make
it en-ee-where!It's up to you, New York,
New-oohYork!"-and burstintotears.
I n t h e r a n g eh o u s e ,I t h r e a dm y b e l t
throughmy belt loopsandcinchit bruisingly
tight to keep my holsterfrom slidingaround.
Load magazines.Bandagefingers.Tape
Band-Aidsdown sothey don'tcomeunstuck
at a crucialmoment.Bandageelbow.Sung l a s s e sh, a t , e a r p r o t e c t o r s A
. swig of
Gatorade.An image:two to the head,rwo
dime-sizeholesin the rectangle.It seems
crucialto get off a goodfirst shot.I suppress
the otherimagethat keepselbowingits way
to the front of my mind, the imageof me
lyingin the dust,huggingHershel'sboots.
My relayis calledto the line.Thin white
s c a r v e so f c l o u d t r a i l a c r o s st h e s k y . A
greenlizard scampersacrossthe ground
pastthe plate bearingmy target'snumber.
Three. Lucky. Even though this is practice,I want to makeit.qood.I am desperate
for a goodomen.
We shoottwo headshotsfrom threeyards,
but it seemsI've madeonly one shot.My
stomachfeelsasflat as roadkill. Bad,bad
sign-but no, the hit is amoeba-shaped.
I've sentrwo roundsthroughthe samehole.
I nail the restof the drillsand think, wildly,
" I ' m g o n n ag e t a n E - t i c k e t o u t a h e r e l "
Then I losea round into the berm from the
proneposition.It wasmy lastbullet. Anxiousto be finished,I lostfocus.
All right,I think, I cando this.Then I'm
confused.
John,Hershel,and Gregmovein
with their clipboardsand pencils,scoringthe
targets.This wasntpractice.This was/.
" K a r e n ,I t h i n k y o u ' l l b e
Johnbarks,
pleasedwith your paper."
It's no E-ticket,but I do makeMarksman.
My fatherwill be only a little disappointed
that I'm not one ofthe few in the classto
makeMarksman1. I'm a litde disappointed
myself,and beforeI leaveI askCoachGreg,
"What canI do to improvemy shooting?"
"You'vegot it all," he says,"The next
stepis to bondwith yourgun."
"I don't know if I'm readyfor that kind
of commitment,"I say.He laughs,but I
meanlt.
The next day,leavingfuizona,l setoff the
metaldetectorat the Phoenixairpon.After
pulling off my watchand bracelets,I look
glintof a bulletstuck
downandseethebrassy
in the cuff of my jeans.Anticipatinga strip
searchanda criminalrecord,I sheepishlyfish
it out anddrop it ontothe plastictray.
"Been doin' someshootin'?"asksthe sec u r i t y m a n ,w h o d o e s n ' te v e n b o t h e rt o
recheckmy pack.
"Some,"I say.
On the othersideof the metaldetectorhe
inspectsthe bullet, then handsit backto
me. "Forry-five.That'sa kind of a big gun
for a girl like you."
"Nah," I say."Nothin to it."
Karen Karbo is tlteaurltor a/Trespassers
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