Before this weekend, I had never shot a gun. If this weekend had gone as scheduled, I probably still would never have shot a gun. I’d still be “ignorant,” as Jay Bailey likes to say of people who don’t know about firearms. I’d still be like the 12-year-old version of myself – the boy who couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger all those years ago.
I first met Jay Bailey a couple of weeks ago after his wife’s antique store was broken into. When I walked into the store, Jay stared me down, giving me a steady, angry look like I didn’t belong. But I realized later that he gives everyone that look. He needs to stare people down as they enter the store in order to identify them. Bailey is legally blind.
We got to talking after I had done some reporting on the break in, and he somehow found out that I had never shot a gun. Being a well-trained expert, Jay offered to take me shooting. I was less willing to go shooting and more interested in watching a blind hunter. He said he is a seasoned bow and rifle marksman. I couldn’t help but think I had a great story on my hands, so I asked if he would ever allow me to accompany him on a hunt. To my surprise, he obliged. I always assumed hunters were more secretive and unwilling to let near-strangers tag along.
Unfortunately, my instincts were correct. When it came time to set up a day to go hunting, things kept being pushed back. Then Jay told me I wouldn’t actually be able to go hunting, but I could come up and hang around the hunters’ camp for a night. Still thinking that could be a decent way to fill the outdoors page, I accepted the half-hearted offer.
When I showed up to his store Saturday afternoon to head to the camp, Jay told me I was no longer invited. Some of the other hunters did not want me tagging along. I protested a little, but there was really nothing I could do. That’s when Jay re-extended his offer to take me target shooting. In need of a story, I agreed.
A few days earlier when we were trying to plan the hunting trip, Jay pulled out a couple of the guns that he thought would be good for me to fire my first shots with. He had me sling a small silver one over my shoulder. It felt foreign and unnatural, so I took it off immediately. My face must have given away my nervousness, because Jay told me it was scary seeing how frightened I seemed to be while holding an unloaded weapon.
“Did something happen when you were little?” he asked.
I was in the Boy Scouts when I was 12 and attended a week-long summer camp. At that time, a week was probably the longest period I had spent without a family member near by. The camp had several stations that you could visit to begin working on merit badges. One of the stations was a rifle range. My friends and I decided to try it out.
After some of my friends did their best to hit the plastic discs that flew across the range, my turn came. I picked up the rifle, which I remember being much too big for me, and attempted to aim it down the range. I didn’t feel prepared to fire it. It was bulky and long, and I couldn’t see clearly through the scope. So I turned to ask the instructor for some assistance.
“You can’t turn and point that at me,” the instructor yelled. “These are loaded weapons.”
A lot went through my mind then. Most instinctually, I was upset at being yelled at. I had turned to him innocently asking for help. But at the same time, the instructor was obviously right. I was holding a loaded weapon – pointing it, be it ever so briefly, at him. It had the power to kill, and I didn’t feel qualified to be in control of such device.
Overwhelmed with the realization of what supreme power the gun gave me, I dropped the rifle on the ground and ran out of the range.
“Where are you going?” asked the instructor.
“I’m not going to shoot,” I mumbled through sobs
I avoided the rifle station for the rest of the week. Looking back at that incident that happened more than 10 years ago, I’ve been able to assign somewhat of a higher purpose to it.
I equate shooting a gun to a person losing his virginity. Before it happens, one can imagine what it will feel like. One can imagine gripping the gun’s barrel for dear life. One can imagine the beauty of the exposed landscape as witnessed with clarity through the scope. But one can also imagine it going terribly wrong. Are the hands in the right position on the gun? Should they be higher, lower? Is it possible to pull the trigger too quickly? Too hard?
A boy’s dream can often trump reality. So can a boy’s nightmare. When it came to shooting, I was happy to let it be but an idea in my head. Happy to be ignorant.
That’s why I was nervous when Jay brought a rifle into the passenger seat of my car on Saturday. It wasn’t loaded, rendering it essentially a paperweight, but still.
On the drive up Flat Creek, where we went shooting, I thanked Jay for agreeing to teach me.
“Anything to keep people from being ignorant,” he said.
When we pulled into the shooting site, Jay set everything up. He first demonstrated his own skills. With the help of the magnifying lens on the top of the gun, he can move a can across the dirt the way some people can drag a yo-yo over cement.
He had to show me how to load the clip, how to pull off the safety – things that most people reading this can likely do with their eyes closed.
Jay handed me the gun and my sweaty hands gripped it weakly. I awkwardly turned to the side and held the weapon up the way Jay instructed. I cocked the gun, pushed down the safety, and suddenly there was nothing left to do but shoot.
I eyed the water bottle, my intended target, through the scope and pulled the trigger when it looked like the crosshairs were on the bottle.
The shell skidded across the distant dirt before I realized that I had just shot my first bullet. It felt nothing like things I had conjured up in my sleep. It didn’t feel like anything. As a pacifist, that scares me a little.
When I finished the clip, I turned to put the gun down and accidentally swept the barrel across Jay’s body.
He yelled just like that camp instructor yelled. Justifiably so, but I couldn’t help feel a little defensive – the way anyone does when they are scolded. Jay insisted I shoot a few more rounds, and I reluctantly agreed. Had I swept the gun across his body before ever firing a bullet, I might still be a gun virgin.
After we finished, I thanked Jay for teaching me how to shoot.
“You’re not taught yet,” he said. “Not even close.”
Not taught, but not ignorant.
Liz, who works in the post office, saying something like “oh, the New Yorker is here.”
