Tuesday, September 18, 2012

“Sometimes it’s just the gang member,” explained one of the handgun instructors, “and sometimes it’s the whole gang,” he concluded, delivering the punchline for why he insists on carrying two clips on his person at all times, in addition to the backup revolver hidden in his ankle holster. For the briefest moment, I wasn’t exactly sure where we sat–were we in an air-conditioned range in Charlotte or were we in, like, fuckin’ Fallujah or something?

They’re not called “clips,” it turns out. This is something I’ve learned in the interim since I last shot, more than four years ago. They’re actually “magazines,” and given the current trajectory of print media, it shouldn’t be too difficult to remember which is which. The class called for neither, though, and only asked we bring ourselves and 50 rounds of .38 ammo.

A simple enough directive, but having never purchased ammunition before, I approached the hunting department at Walmart fully expecting the staff to sniff me out. There’s a complete newbie, the salesperson would think, and we’re going to have to run at least three forms of identification to verify him. I completely overthought this, of course, and no forms of identification were needed. Purchasing a box of Federal .38s carries with it all the gravity of buying a box of Cheez-Its, apparently. As for what happened to those 50 rounds, well, you’ll have to come back on Thursday.