When one of my friends confessed to having a gun phobia, other friends and I rallied to support her. Only one of us had actually grown up around guns since her stepfather had taught her how to hunt since age 8. The rest of us just believed, since we were all very cerebral academics, that nothing should be feared when clearly becoming more educated about a fear was more productive.
Hence, “Chicks with Clicks.”
The Hunter asked her gun enthusiast/instructor friend, who owned property outside of Austin, if he’d show us the basics of gun safety. Through email, we pinpointed a date, the firearms we wanted to practice with, potluck items for lunch afterwards, and confirmed that The Chicks with Clicks would buy and split the cost of the ammo.
A few weeks later, The Hunter arranged a time when The Chicks with Clicks would meet and shop for ammo.
Of course, nothing happens with us without food; so we first met for brunch prior to ammo shopping, which I referred to as “Brunch and Bullets.” (Yes, there was a corny theme that ran throughout the soul of this endeavor, but I’ve not captured all the “gun puns.”)
So, our bullet brunch discussion included the fact that .22 ammo fit in both handguns and rifles. The Hunter stated we were much better off starting with a rifle. That last part was counterintuitive for my novice self only because I thought the kickback from a rifle would be more challenging to deal with than a handgun. The Hunter air demonstrated how one’s wrist allowed a lot of flexibility, which meant that the barrel of a gun could theoretically point anywhere. A rifle, when properly positioned against the user’s shoulder of the dominant hand, had a more predictable direction for the barrel.
As a matter of fact, the most common direction of a rifle barrel once a novice user pulled the trigger was involuntarily raising it up. Plus, the wrist flexibility was greatly controlled, making it at least safer in terms of knowing where the bullet would go after the trigger was pulled.
After brunch, we drove a mere 5 minutes down the road to shop for ammo.
The Hunter led us to the aisle. Since we planned to practice with a handgun, a rifle and a shotgun, we needed 3 different types of ammo. As The Hunter looked on her phone for the size of ammo needed, I dashed off to the firearm counter to ask one of the two employees to help us.
The younger of the two men followed me to where my friends stood. Although I already knew that shotguns used shells, and handguns and rifles used bullets, that was the extent of my ammo knowledge. He advised us to look for bullets that had brass casings since steel casings dirtied guns more. Besides, if there was a faulty bullet, steel casings would cause more damage to the gun due to pressure buildup than brass. For shotgun shells, one didn’t have to worry so much since there was more room within the shell to dissipate pressure.
Another consideration he brought to our attention was our environment. For example, since we were shooting targets on private land, we didn’t have to worry so much about which type of bullets we were using, but he normally steered people away from AR-15s for home protection. The justification was this: if you shot an intruder with an AR-15, the bullet would most likely go through the person and could potentially hit a loved one. A shotgun shell, on the other hand, would hit the intruder and its momentum would be greatly reduced by the impact.
He then added that hollow-tipped bullets were more likely to lodge into the intruder, but would be far more deadly. I’m sure we must have all pulled a face when he said that since he quickly added that it was far better for the intruder to get the brunt of the bullet than any loved one we were protecting. Nonetheless, we had no use for hollow-tipped bullets for this activity.
The Hunter told us about a “survival” shotgun she’d gifted for her husband on Father’s Day.
The user could breakdown the shotgun and store its parts in the buttstock. Intrigued, we walked over to the firearm counter and asked to see one. The employee wasn’t allowed to break it down for us, but he let us to hold it.
The Hunter took the opportunity to show us the proper way to hold a shotgun, especially where the non-dominant should go. At this point, an older man peeked around the corner with a big smile on his face. Initially, we all thought he was going to be an asshole, seeing four women gathered around the firearm counter. Blessedly, we were wrong.
First of all, this guy was a veteran who’d trained soldiers on how to properly handle and fire weapons. Not only that, he’d taught his own daughter the same thing. He informed us that the number one consideration we should look for in any firearm was comfort. If the weapon didn’t fit comfortably in our hands or rest comfortably against our shoulder, then we had the wrong one.
We doubled up on the ammo that we’d selected, then made our way to the checkout counter.
The Hunter made the actual purchase while the rest of us used a cash app to reimburse her for our quarter.
During this outing, we learned that The Hunter had invited her husband along. Then, Phobia asked if she could invite her boyfriend. After all, he’d taught his kids how to use guns and knives, and trained them in martial arts. We agreed that Phobia’s boyfriend could join us. Yet, we shot down the idea of changing our name to “Chicks with Clicks and Dicks.”
The day before the blessed event, I gassed up my car and picked up some libations.
The other Chicks with Clicks were texting and emailing what they would bring. I saved time by texting a picture of my basket at checkout.
We all met up at The Hunter’s house and caravanned to The Instructor’s property.
After a round of introductions, including two of The Instructor’s friends who’d brought their shotgun for us to try, The Chicks with Clicks took a group picture: Phobia, The Hunter, Alpha Tits (her own spontaneously minted nom de guerre), and me.
The lesson began with ear protection since everyone was already wearing shades or safety glasses.
We either wore disposable earplugs or hi-end durable ear protection, which was a bit overkill, given the firearms The Instructor had chosen for us to practice with weren’t too loud. Only Phobia’s boyfriend’s AR-15 seemed surprisingly loud since it lacked a suppressor.
Next, The Instructor went over safety pointers such as all weapons pointing down range;
all weapons being open with no magazines attached until loaded; loaded weapons with the safety on until aimed and ready to fire; having a proper, stable stance such that one could do a “booty dance” without moving the weapon; having proper hand placement.
Alpha Tits enthusiastically volunteered to be first to fire every weapon after The Instructor demo.
By some strange sense of pecking order, I was always second, usually followed by Phobia and graciously The Hunter went last.
While watching The Instructor demo our first rifle, a Ruger 10/22 with an AAC Suppressor .22lr, I noticed Phobia’s cringing posture: slouched back, curled fingers pressed against her mouth and lower jaw. I couldn’t visualize anyone with that posture handling a loaded weapon. I immediately stopped her by saying she had to adopt the Wonder Woman posture: back straight, shoulders squared, hands on hips.
The Instructor purposely started us off with the most user-friendly rifle, mounted on a table with a wonderfully powerful scope with crosshairs that visually lessened the 100 yards between us and the targets. With all that help from the setup, my biggest challenge was being too close to the scope. What I learned about a rifle scope was it differed from a microscope eyepiece. I started off too close to it. Minute movements on my part made the entire visual field dramatically move around. After commenting on that phenomenon, I received the advice to move my head farther back from the scope.
Then I overthought, pulled the trigger and nothing happened.
The rifle was a little dirty, so The Instructor cleared out the loaded bullet, I overthought some more, pulled the trigger and hit the target. I tried again only to discover that the magazine was empty, which gave me the opportunity to reload it. Once I put the magazine onto the rifle, The Instructor told me to smack it into place. So, I smacked it and heard rifle fire.
Perfectly timed to my smacking the magazine, Phobia’s boyfriend had fired his AR-15. I let him know in a not-so-gentle tone of voice that he had to warn us before he did his own thing. I took a few deep breaths, overthought, and managed to hit the target a few more times.
By the time Phobia took her turn, she seemed far more relaxed.
For The Hunter, this was just another outing of many outings she’d had in her lifetime with her family and now with us.
Not only did she shoot the beginner’s mounted rifle, but also tested out the .22 caliber survival rifle she’d gifted her husband.
And while the rest of us were practicing with rifles,
here was Phobia’s boyfriend set up on the same firing line to our left. At least he followed my sage advice and got our attention before he pulled the trigger.
Neither The Hunter nor her husband needed a gun safety course,
but they both agreed that it was a good skill to have and congratulated us on being proactive non-gun owners. After all, if the first time you’re around a gun is when there’s an active shooter, that’s too late.
Given the fact that I overthought my aim prior to pulling the trigger just to hit a stationary target,
I felt peer pressured to practice with this shotgun, a CZ Quail 20 gauge, to hit a moving target. Everyone kept telling me that since the shotgun’s owner was about to leave, I needed to try it before it was too late. I knew before I even said “pull” that that clay pigeon was in no danger. I loaded one shell, said “pull,” swung the shotgun in the direction of the moving target, and missed just as I knew I would. As a matter of fact, the only thing I hit was my right shade lens when ejecting the shell.
“Fuck this,” I grunted and handed the shotgun to its owner. I assured him it wasn’t his weapon; it was me. Definitely me.
At least I took an impressive picture with the shotgun. I texted it to my family. Mom commented, “You look like Granny (from the Beverly Hillbillies), looking for an opossum!” In real life, my maternal grandmother was a markswoman–a skill lost by my generation of suburbanites. By the time I came along, she only hunted with a fishing pole.
Once we got around to the custom AR-15 with an AAC 556 Suppressor,
no amount of comfortability or persuasion would bring Phobia to try it out. When asked why, she said that she had no reason to because it was a weapon of war. Not that I disagreed with her rationale, but I had to try it at least once since, for the past decade that I’d been living in Texas, this weapon, more so that any other, had been the symbol of Second Amendment rights.
I did my usual overthinking before pulling the trigger. Although I hit the target, the stench of ammonia from the rifle startled me.
To practice with the handguns (Rough Rider 22lr revolver,
Ruger Mark 23 in 22lr, Glock 34 in 9mm with a SilencerCo Osprey Suppressor), we moved closer to the targets, so we were only 15 yds away. At this point, I was starting to become hungry, and not for more gun practice. I’d snacked a little in between practice, but nothing takes the place of actually sitting down and eating.
I can’t remember if we practiced with the Glock first or second, but I definitely remember trying the revolver last. It turned out to be my favorite. None of the handguns felt particularly “right” in my hands, even with The Instructor correcting my hand placement. Yet, I liked the revolver since the weapon’s action meant that the user couldn’t just pull the trigger and many bullets fired away. Even loading it with 6 rounds took longer than loading more bullets into a magazine.
Despite Alpha Tits’ sheer enthusiasm, she kept aiming too high. Round after round, The Instructor told her to lower her aim. I couldn’t resist. “She can’t aim lower because she went to Yale!” She laughed and confirmed that all her life, she’d been told to aim high.
I was next and hit the target nearly every time. Of course I attributed that to going to a state school–Carolina, to be exact. Every other person who hit the target, then identified that he or she either attended a state school or community college.
My favorite part of the entire outing came at the end: lunch.
After wiping off the front porch table twice, we all dressed the table with pre-prepared foods from our local grocery stores along with adult beverages. All of us sat around the large community table and ate and drank, firing off lively conversation.
Libations never tasted so good. We’d truly worked up an appetite.
The combination of giddiness and concentration had taken a toll on my energy. I’m so happy I hadn’t planned to do anything afterwards since I didn’t know how long we’d practice.
I’m still not convinced that I need to be a gun owner, but I’m far more interested in learning more about both the culture and the legislation of guns. I know there’s a happier medium between the two extremes being bandied.