The Range

I stared at the black silhouette hanging five yards in front of me, a faded red and gray bullseye decorating its chest. My fingers trembled as I curled them around the grip of the revolver.

“Now, ya wanna make sure ya squeeze the trigger. Don’t just yank ya finger back. That’s the trick, Mike. Keep it straight, keep it slow and keep it steady,” a gruff voice barked behind me. I winced and adjusted my earmuffs.

“I can hear you just fine, Uncle Rick. You…you don’t have to yell,” I said. Rick growled somewhere deep in his throat but did lower his voice.

“Relax your hand a little bit. Yeah, that’s it, kid,” he said. I exhaled a shaky breath. Did they really need to make the target look like a person? Was that even legal anymore? I glanced around the grimy shooting range, dust pooling in its corners and fingerprints staining the partitions between the booths. Even if it was illegal, I had a feeling that this place wouldn’t care.

“Now, I want you to shoot on three. One, two…three!” I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled and flew out of my sweaty hand as the bullet exploded from the barrel and raced toward its target. I shrieked and stumbled backwards, covering my face with my hands.

“That’s, uh, that’s a really good…first attempt. For your next shot, let’s work on…let’s just try it all again,” my uncle said as he picked up my gun.

I slowly opened my eyes and examined the target. The paper man was unharmed, and the pocked wall around it didn’t seem to have been bothered by my shot, either.

 “Where did it even go?” I asked, wiping a sweaty strand of brown hair away from my face. Rick grimaced and waved his hand in the air.

“That don’t matter. You’ll do better next time,” he said, handing me the gun.

“That bad, huh?” I muttered.

Rick curled his thick fingers around mine and lifted the revolver so that it was trained at the bullseye once more. “You wanna make your old man proud, don’t ya? You can’t follow in his footsteps if you don’t know how to shoot.”

“Can’t I make him proud in some other way? Like…” I gnawed on my lower lip. “He was amazing at woodwork. Couldn’t I do that instead?”

My uncle frowned. “Your dad was the bravest man I knew, and nothin’ made him prouder than a hard day at work. You remember how his chest would puff out when he talked about it. ‘I changed the world today! I changed lives!’ he’d say. Then your ma would crack wise and he’d laugh his ass off. But he was proud. He was good. It would have broken his heart to hear ya talk about honoring him by doing woodwork.”

I nodded glumly. Rick’s rebuke was sharp but fair. The truth was that I did remember, sometimes too well. Dad’s job may have made him proud, but it had also taken him away from us. Tears stung behind my eyelids, but I quickly blinked them away.

“Let’s give this another shot then,” I said.

“Good lad,” Rick replied as he took his hand away from the gun. “Alright, this time, don’t close ya eyes!”

I slowed my breathing, tightened my grip on the revolver and squeezed the trigger. This time, I was ready for the thundering boom that seemed to crash against the walls around us. I even managed to anticipate the recoil. I was not, however, prepared for something striking my shoulder. A sudden burst of pain and heat spread through my upper body, and I fell onto my back, screaming.

“I shot myself! I shot myself” I yelled. Rick jumped on top of me and wrenched the gun from my hand.

“If you shot yourself, ya wouldn’t be talking, ya ninny!” he growled. “Now calm down before you actually do shoot someone!”

 I stared up at him and then pulled my shirt down. An ugly red mark sat triumphantly above my collarbone, but the skin had not been broken.

“It was just the casin’. You shoulda worn what I told you to wear. Protected yourself,” Rick said as he nudged the gold bullet casing with his shoe. I went to pick it up and he gently slapped the back of my head.

“Don’t do that. It’s hot.”

I traced my finger along a crack in the cement beneath me. “I want to make Pa proud, I really do. And I know it’s time I got myself a job to take care of Ma and the girls. But…Uncle Rick, this ain’t it. This might be fun for some people, but it’s not for me. I’ll never be like Pa. I’m not strong or courageous like he was. I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

Rick knelt beside me. “Give it one more go before you give up. Give your papa three tries, at least.” His voice was softer this time, almost paternal. Uncle Rick had never wanted kids, but he loved his brother. I supposed losing Dad had been as hard on my uncle as it had been on us.

I licked my lips and then raised my hand. Rick pulled me up and I quickly got into position before my cowardice could get the better of me.

Just one more try and then I’m free, I promised myself. Then I could get out of this seedy place, back into the sunlight and away from Rick’s fantasies. I knew what I was: a pimply teenager with half my father’s bravery and even less of his talent. I could never take my dad’s place of honor in the family; I just wasn’t built for it. But I owed him one more try.

My uncle handed me the gun and I nodded my thanks.

“Keep your breath even. That’ll stop those hands tremblin’,” Rick said. I inhaled deeply and then wrinkled my nose. The room stunk of smoke and sulfur and something that smelled a little bit too much like stale urine. I started to breathe through my mouth.

“Now find your target.” I pointed the gun at the bullseye on the silhouette’s chest, my fingers dancing nervously upon the grip.

“You can close one eye if you really have to, but don’t go closin’ both of ‘em.”

I opened my eyes as wide as they could go. “I’m ready,” I said.

My uncle nodded, pretending he didn’t hear the quiver in my voice. “Then squeeze.”

I squeezed the trigger. The bullet furiously parted the air in front of it before nestling itself into the yellowing paper just outside of the silhouette. My uncle squinted, then let out a loud whoop and slapped my back.

“You did it, Mike!” he yelled. I tried to smile around my gritted teeth.

“I didn’t really hit it, though,” I protested, but Rick shook his head.

“You hit the paper, and that’s good enough for me! We’ll keep coming back until you’re hitting the bullseye, but I don’t think it will be long ‘til you’re asking for your dad’s old job.” Rick whooped once more, then moved toward the flaking door behind us.

I held the gun up in front of me, pinching the grip between my thumb and forefinger. Oh, Dad. Why couldn’t you have been a baker or something? I thought miserably. Why did you have to be a bloody hitman?