Welcome to the Gun Show

[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.

In a way, the foreignness of this feeling made me feel my own privilege acutely. There are parts of America where guns are used against wildlife, or as part of the culture of becoming an adult. I know people (although not that many) who have been in the American military, and of course my Israeli peers learned how to load and fire a gun when they were half the age I am now. But I’m so sheltered from first-hand experiences with war or violence that I’ve never had to hold a gun before. I never had to feel its cold weight in my hands; never had to flip the chamber out and fill it with a round of six bullets, clicking them into place one at a time; never had to imagine an enemy and line up someone’s midsection as my target; never had to squeeze the trigger until I see a tiny burst of fire; never had to feel the impact of being knocked slightly off my footing, and feeling my heartbeat kick up to doubletime.

But this wasn’t about having to be here, because lives or my own life depended on it. I was here by my own choice. After about 20 shots, I grew uncomfortable, and stepped back, letting my friend have the rest of the ammo. With each shot, I jumped at the logically expected, and yet completely sudden, noise. 

A group of girls in their early 20s arrived, all wearing leggings, tank tops and flip-flops. They started shooting, resulting in a ludicrous visual-aural contrast: it looked like a sorority slumber party, and sounded like war.

Suddenly – because any change in the noise you’ve become used to is sudden – we heard bangs become booms – one of the women, a tall, skinny blonde, had given up her dainty revolver in favor of shouldering a shotgun. Each blast ripped an enormous hole in the paper target and sent the shell clattering to the floor behind her. Her friends giggled, hooted and cheered her on, but I couldn’t take it.

I fled from the noise, stepping out of the firing range area and back into the company of the gun cases and the dozens of paper targets hanging up, awaiting their inevitable doom. One of the members of the flip-flop militia came out for more ammo. “Boy, your friend is really giving it to that target,” I commented. “I know, right?” she chirped. “She just broke up with her boyfriend, so we decided to come here and shoot.”

Dear reader, believe me when I say that I have never uttered the sentence, “I broke up with my boyfriend, so let’s go get some shotguns.” But apparently, this is not an outrageous response to stress. As we were leaving, a couple came in. “It’s her first time,” the boyfriend said. “Are you nervous?” I asked. “No,” she said. “I’m super-stressed, so I’m looking forward to getting out my aggression.”

But beyond the literal level, holding and firing a gun, there was something about the experience that also shook me figuratively. The recoil of the gun, the resistance of the trigger with the safety on, gave me pause. I didn’t want to fire the gun – not with that recoil, that burst of fire in the barrel as the gunpowder ignites, explodes and expels the bullet in what seems to be a cry of protest from the instrument itself: I wish things didn’t have to be this way.

Later, as I washed the gunpowder off my hands and forearms – it leaves residue, as any “Law & Order” fan knows – I thought about the day, and its scripted beats sitting next to, but in other contrast from, each other: 

Woke up, had breakfast, wrote blog posts and answered emails. Walked around Santa Monica, window  shopped, exfoliated and moisturized hands at Lush. Had lunch, drove to the gun range, loaded bullets into a .357 Magnum, fired at faceless orange torsos, washed gunpowder off my hands, posed with a comedically gigantic gun [see photo at left]. Drove to dinner at a friend’s house, dropped my friend off at LAX, drove home and went to sleep. From gentle, all-natural exfoliants and moisturizers to gunpowder residue all in one day. Who was I?

That was a month ago. I wanted to write about it, but kept putting it off: I didn’t know how to frame it, couldn’t identify the lessons I’d learned, and not being able to articulate myself was perhaps the most shocking reverberation of all. There were obvious takeaways: I didn’t like guns. I thought it was perhaps important, as a writer and occasional performer, to be able to physicalize what it meant to hold a gun correctly and safely – the net weight weapon itself, the feel of it being loaded, then wielding the piece when it was time to aim, changing your finger's position when it was time to fire, pressing the trigger, boom. 

In the weeks since, I have found myself rattled by the echoes of gunshots and the reverberations of recoils. There are people who need to own and carry guns, to fire them in order to secure a perimeter (shoutout to ya, Jack Bauer) or to protect freedom, democracy or – despite the irony of using an instrument to achieve it - peace. But I hope that I never find myself in the position of needing to fire a gun.

I moved across the country to try new things and push my boundaries. And a year in, at least now I’m certain of one thing: aiming for my enemy’s orange kidneys is a bit outside my comfort zone. For me, happiness was certainly not a warm gun. And if I ever write a screenplay titled "Flip-Flop Militia," you can say you read about it here first. 

Comments

[Chris M]

If a may Esther, as I've come to know you via this blog, guns arent for you. But I guess it's like lots of things in life, a person's got to find some of it out for themselves, which it seems you have.

Instead, next time I'm in Sou Cal, lets go on the Tragic Hollywood Deaths Bus Tour! (seriously).

[Esther]

You may, Chris. :) I know guns aren't for me. This was one of those rare moments where I just said "yes," without overthinking it, and got a good piece out of it.

[Yisrael Medad]

Tzahal awaits you.

[VJ]

Adorable! How did I miss this? I know, I need to be following along more closely. But you probably needed to start with something a bit smaller, perhaps a .22 or even a 9MM to get used to the recoil. The Mossad used to love the low cals (.22 etc) for the low recoil & noise. If you really know what you're doing? Just a few small holes will do the job. Quickly, quietly & efficiently. Cheers & Good Luck! 'VJ'

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