An Inexplicable Visit to an Odd Boutique

Eight years ago, my wife and life partner of 24 years suddenly decided she wanted a divorce. We had two children at the time, aged 11 and 14. Our lives were upended. My sense of home and belonging was destabilized, and I struggled, often unsuccessfully, to keep an even keel.

One of the odder things I did during that time was to visit a local gun shop and shooting range on the outskirts of Minneapolis.

I was 50 at the time and hadn't touched a weapon in 26 years. I'd spent three years in the military in an infantry unit, and another three in the reserves. I had trained a lot, including many hours shooting weapons of all sorts. I put an end to all that in 1991, however, and then developed a career in human rights documentation and social science. By the time the divorce hit, it had been decades since I'd thought of holding a gun.

Yesterday, I began a creative writing class and was asked to write a short piece based on observation of a venue or experience. "Use nouns and verbs, not modifiers," the teacher said.

I decided to write about that visit to the gun shop.

I'm told it's good to share with others. It's supposed to make the writing better and more meaningful.

So here goes. If you are so moved, let me know what you think.

An Inexplicable Visit to an Odd Boutique It looked like an upscale bakery and coffee shop, but the display cases were filled with weapons.

Handguns. Long guns. Guns with sights. Guns with silencers. Glass panels, neat displays, everything labeled.

Metal racks with gun paraphernalia. Holsters under the arm, on the belt, around the ankle. Canvas belts, leather loops, straps, buckles. .

On another rack, gun sights. Laser. Optical. Screw-ons, clip-ons, add-ons. Sights with little windows starred with red or green dots, tricks I'd never seen or used. So many new options for making sure the bullet hits its target.

Elsewhere, boxes of ammunition: 9mm, 5.56, 7.62. Numbers from my past, carefully laid out like candy in a chocolate shop.

In the center of the room, luxurious couches, tastefully arranged around a dark wooden coffee table. Rich brown leather, gas fireplace, flames flickering. A comfortable place to relax.

Behind the counter, eager young salesmen with holsters. Assorted handguns on hips, walking advertisements for their product.

Through a door to the side, a small, enclosed area, another door, and a sign, “No entry without ear protection.”

On the other side of that barrier, the shooting range. Multiple lanes with grey-white walls. No upscale chic here.

Shell casings were strewn about amidst men perched on stools,, only a handful of women. The smell of cordite hung heavy in the enclosed space.

One eager fellow pounded out staccato bursts with a light machine gun. Another squeezed off singles from something that looked familiar. An AR-15? Is that what they call them here? 

Young men glided about, sweeping up brass casings. Quiet, discreet, like attendants in a tony Mexican bathroom.

Paper targets whizzed back and forth: 10 feet, 20, 50, 75.

Some shooters worked slowly: Bang. Aim. Bang. Others indulged in loud, orgasmic eruptions.

What was I doing there? Channeling my inner Walter Mitty? Trying to remember what it was like to be young? Grieving my divorce? What was the connection?

I picked up a pistol magazine. Familiar feel. I slipped one round in after another, pinching and scraping my thumb. Quicker and quicker as I gradually remembered the movement, until the magazine was full. How many bullets? 8? 10? I used to know.

I was there with a friend from the old country, another former infantryman. He had kids, a home, and a comfortable American life. What were we doing here?

We talked in our language, words from the old days, slang from when we were young.

A blond woman turned towards us. “What are you speaking?”

“Hebrew.”

“God bless you,” she said.

I looked away in disgust. Who did she think I was?

Shooting at a gun range is play-acting violence. You pretend to blow open faces, chests, and intestines, imagining your bullets puncturing kidneys, shredding hearts, ripping lungs.

“Fire at the center of the mass,” the man had said three decades earlier. “Don’t aim for the head, it’s too small.”

Draw, cock, fire, all in one rapid movement. It hurt. My fingers were too soft after years of stroking keyboards, and my body no longer held the position with ease.

I flicked a switch, and the target hummed softly back. Bullet holes in the cardboard, but not well-grouped. Still, I hadn't embarrassed myself entirely.

I couldn't keep my marriage together, but I could still shoot a cardboard plaque.

I no longer knew how to do this. Not really. It had been 26 years, and this was no longer my life. My body and mind had transformed and it hurt to mimic the movements of my younger self.

Why, then, was I there?

In a bakery, smells trigger memories of home.

For me, it's the cordite.

I need a new smell.

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Check out my other posts on personal themes at www.jamesron.net, and on professional topics at www.jamesron.org. My professional website is www.jamesron.com, and you can access my academic work on ResearchGate.