Safe in Al's arms

My nephew took me to an indoor shooting range last year. It was the cheapest therapy I ever had.

Al’s Arms shares a building with a U.S. post office, a real convenience for postmen who decide to go postal. For the rest of us, a valid driver’s license and $30 will cover the cost of a pistol and 50 bullets. No knowledge of guns or proof of mental health required.

Three sullen employees kept watch over case after case of rifles, pistols and revolvers. I didn’t care what kind of firearm my nephew picked; I was captivated by the target choices. While I scoped them out, a startling sound ricocheted off the countertops right into my eardrums.

What I assumed was a prank hand buzzer turned out to be digitalized words from the voice box of one of Al’s employees. Predisposed to inappropriate laughter, I knew that making eye contact with my nephew was out of the question, so I returned to the targets. Choosing the right one was vitally important to me.

“We’ll take the 22-revolver and the checkerboard target,” I heard my nephew say. “No," I countered, "we'll take the one with the body outline."

I had been waiting half a century to fire a pistol. No way was I settling for a checkerboard.

Admittedly, there were worse choices, but no one who has an ounce of self-esteem would unload hostility onto a prairie dog target. Bulls-eye targets were too plebian for my taste, and targets covered with photos of bottles and cans seemed like child’s play. What I wanted was a lifelike target that cried out in pain and fell to the ground, hemorrhaging, when shot. Barring that, I wanted the closest possible thing.

You see, I needed to witness the horror on my mother-in-law’s face when she spotted me, pistol in hand and ready for revenge. I craved the chance to watch my son’s principal piss his pants while, eyes fixed on my weapon, he begged for my mercy. I wanted to pretend I had the power--just once--to make a grocery store cashier thank me for bagging.

We took the body outline target and entered the shooting range, accompanied by our instructor. When he tells people about our trip to the shooting range, my nephew refers to him as Ned, the character from “South Park” who has a voice box, too.

Ned taught us to use the gun in a minute flat. He and my nephew tag-teamed the demo; it called for two hands, and Ned had to use one of his to cover his voice box. The lesson was so basic it barely qualified as one, and it shouldn’t have qualified us as range-ready. Maybe it should have bothered me, but I had my victims in sight and I was itching to pull the trigger.

For a novice, I thought I was a good shot. My nephew disagreed. He believed his bullets were the lethal ones and that most of mine were out of bounds. I was too mature to argue.

I was not too mature to yell at the target before I fired. “This one’s for you, Kilgore, you asshole” I taunted the principal. “Who’s the bitch now, Ida?” I asked my mother-in-law. This was therapy at its finest.

We shot our load in record time, but the feeling of power persisted long after we were home from the range. The bullet-ridden target still hangs in my office, and every so often I find a shell casing hidden by my nephew to remind me of the time I found comfort in Al’s Arms.