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@ 25 yards, i nearly took the red.
@ 5, it vanished.
hidden amid cardboard manufacturers and pallet assemblers, lies the rifle range.
it's a small place, but close.
attendants in a constant state of disdain.
on their hips -- 1911's.
.45 caliber teflon coated hollow-points.
ex-cops.
no proof, but they've got that...cop feel.
grimacing;
scowling;
terse, well-rehearsed answers to questions posed several times a day.
and i've learned to expect this -- the general atmosphere.
doesn't bother me anymore.
matter of fact, even thought about a rifle range story.
-- script 'bout the workers.
and the patrons.
a revolving cast of kooks and mad men.
atimes normal fellas. just average joe's.
but it's the others. the aforementioned patrons.
the 63-year old man rigged in para-military gear -- sporting skin tight "affliction," tee's and 8-inch .357's.
well honed revolvers polished silver from years of use.
dedicated shooters, they are.
chomping at the bit, twitch finger, hoping some punk pulls a sharpened screwdriver in a dark alley.
then there's the gangster-types.
the "exotics," i like to call them.
black 'n gray tattoos. sad clowns, pit bulls, Jesus on the cross, RIP Joey, etc., etc.
big bosomed broads brandishing pistolas.
generally new pistols, the "exotics," carry.
Glocks; HK's; Taurus.
mostly 9mm Glocks, though.
and white, white Air Jordans.
brand spanking new.
can't hit the broadside of a barn, these gents.
but they look mean as hell.
and are willing to pull the trigger.
guess that's all that matters.
next, the asians -- generally meek looking individuals with high-speed weaponry.
determined faces. stolid, unforgiving.
ready to protect their kin from another Riot.
and absolutely no sense of gun safety.
wielding a pistol like it's a remote control.
they don't talk much.
-- dig that.
we've got the obese middle-aged guy -- he's rigged for competition.
3k on a pistol with laser sights, tricked out barrel, ventilated rib.
looks like something straight out of a richard donner flick (think danny glover vs. the Predator).
dozen magazines strapped to his side -- gut flap preventing quick access.
what's the point, right?
finally, there's me. my type.
Veterans.
disgruntled, sporting issued combat boots and reliable weapons.
we don't talk much either.
well, maybe to each other.
about our tours in Iraq or Afghan -- annunciating quite loudly.
as if the rest of the range couldn't figure out we were Jarheads @ one point in time.
apparently the "United States Marine Corps," caps aren't enough.
so we state loud.
and generally hit our targets.
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
-- all in the red.
standing like they taught us.
feet shoulder width apart;
breathe;
exhale;
slowly squeeze the trigger...and --
BLAM!
sulfur hits your nose, brass airborne.
CHING!
CHING!
CHING!
all alone in that booth with your gun's and ammo.
and after 400 rounds, you've had enough, least i do.
100 bucks downrange...buried in sawdust.
butcha know what?
once that last round speeds down the barrel,
and that brass CHING! CHING! CHING's, on the cement floor, i can breathe easier.
pulse settles, smile comes, and maybe even a little natural high (sans VA meds) hits you in the gut.
right where it used to be.
walk out, nod to the rifle-range gang, remove your earplugs/eye protection and hit the open air with a get-up in your go.
i call it therapy...
