[All images link to full-size versions.]
When I think of Los
Angeles, I think of the things that inspired
my move from New York: the
sunshine even (and especially) in winter, the beach, the mountains, the air. These are peaceful images, all yoga-hippy-dippy, all love beads and tranquil meditation. People speak of the brutality
of Hollywood, of the superficiality
and the smog, but for me, the mere existence of nature so close to the urban experience is a huge and peaceful
upgrade, and there’s no brutality to be found.
Then, that day, I felt the weight in my hand, the clichéd cold
steel that seemed simultaneously impartial and vindictive. My hands were peaceful; my heart unencumbered
by grudges. But somehow, a .357 Magnum doesn’t seem to care.
It happened fairly spontaneously: a friend was in town and
we were trying to find something unexpected to do. What was the last thing that
two Jewish female Democrats would do? We asked Google, and found the Los
Angeles Gun Club. We looked at each other, hesitated only a moment, and said
yes.
We made our way to a sketchy, semi-deserted part of downtown
– a hipster clothing factory and a sign welcomed us: Los Angeles Gun Club.
Our man behind the counter, Joseph, gave us a quick safety tutorial, took our thumbprints and showed us a few guns. One of the guns was
a Beretta: the magazine popped into the handle quickly, with a
satisfying click, with pressure from the palm of the holder’s hand. It
seemed attractive, and simple, but the instructions for safe use
were very complicated. Since a part of me was still shocked and terrified that
I was peering through glass at display cases of weapons, we decided that
simplicity was key and went with a classic, the .357 Magnum. And we chose a
target – an orange torso, poor fella had no idea what was coming. [At left: His sibling, with organs delineated for easy perforation, who was the subject of a later slaughter.]
Safety first,
we suited up with earplugs, ear protectors, and eye shields – a very unsexy look, I might add - took the gun and
a box of ammo, and headed into the firing range area. Only a few others were there that afternoon, but even
those few bullets exploding around us did something to my nerves. There’s no etiquette about courtesy in shooting like there is in bowling ("after you, no, after you!"), mostly because each shooter’s vision is limited – within each booth, they can only see their target, and not what’s happening around them. So the gun reports aren’t consecutive; they overlap at non-standard intervals, sounding like a cross between fireworks and bombs.
My friend, braver than I am on any given day,
went first. Her first shot – straight into the center of Orange Man’s torso, was so perfect that we reeled that target back immediately, kept it otherwise
pristine as a trophy, and started fresh with a second target. She squeezed off
a few more bullets, and then handed the gun over to me.