"I should probably go first," Trevor volunteered.
"All right, you're up. Who's got the, you know, the ... it ... the gun?"
None of us had the gun. We had left it out on the counter. I offered to take the walk of shame. The gun was sitting where we left it. The guy behind the counter said, "Yep, I figured you might need that." He grinned. He was actually being friendly.
"Y'all sure you don't need any help? You're cool?"
"No, no, we're cool," I said too loudly from under my earphones. "But maybe you could come show us real quick what we should do. Some of us are new."
"Yeah, I figured. Happy to help. Hey, Dell, pause the movie a sec. My name's Ricky," he told me, taking ear guards for himself but no safety glasses.
We went into the range, where Trevor was peering at the metal clip where you hang the paper target, as if it had to be more complicated than it looked.
Ricky showed us how to hold the gun. "No, no, you don't want to limp wrist it like that," he told me when I cupped my left hand under my right. He told us about squeezing the trigger and not flinching. He showed us how to put your hand on someone's back when he's on the firing line. "All right, you boys are good to go. Holler if you need anything. Have fun." Then he retreated back to his movie leaving us with a Smith & Wesson Model 10 .38 revolver and a box of 30 .38 Special rounds.
Trevor loaded the revolver and stepped up to the firing position. He screwed up his face and fired. We were expecting it this time, that instant flower of pure white noise, but it was no less surprising. The pistol kicked up slightly. Trevor turned around at us with a 'did you see that?' grin. He peered out at the paper target, which seemed unscathed.
He fired a second time, holding his arm straight against the kick this time. He peered. He fired a third time. He peered. Not a mark on the target.
"I think there something wrong with the sights," Trevor said.
"Maybe you need to compensate for distance, like with a sniper rifle." We were watching, a little breathless and ready for our turns.
"No, I think the sights are off. They probably go off kilter on older guns. You know, like they need to be recalibrated." He examined the gun as if to check for a recalibrate sights dial. Finding none, he took his fourth shot. A little circle appeared into the lower left corner of the dangling paper target.
"Hey," he grinned, spinning around to see if we saw, but careful to keep pointing the gun downrange.
"How many points is that worth?"