We go up to a big house in Cairo, New York with a bunch of friends. Rent this mansion and party a lot. It’s fun and tiring, and on the way back from the house back to the city, Jack suggests we go shooting. I am a little apprehensive at first - something about firing guns for the sake of firing guns makes little to no sense when you first hear it. Jack insists, everyone is onboard. I am intrigued enough, and have little say in the matter. We’re going. We go.
The place is strange. Everyone there is so relaxed. I am extremely on edge surrounded by 12 gauge shotguns, rifles, handguns, bullets, people of all ages hanging out around them with total calm. There’s safety in their relaxation, but it still seems crazy to me. Drawn together for a love of weapons.
We step out onto the range, bathed in fluorescent clay pigeons and it all seems so excessive, so meaningless and mildly destructive to the world, this masturbatory firing of guns. But my turn arrives and I get briefed on how to load, stand and brace myself. I yell
“Pull.”
the first one down
“Pull.”
“Pull.”
“Pull.”
“Pull.”
My first round of five is over. I am shaking with adrenaline, having hit all five. It’s immediately a love relationship. I want to destroy all of those orange discs. They’re there to taunt me, teach me about physics and acting in the moment and rekindle all of these desires that were embedded in me as a kid, playing secret agent in the woods in Vermont and watching action movies and all of that.
My hands are literally shaking with excitement until my next turn comes and I cam down, settle into the next shots. I go 22 for 25 in our brief session, and I am incredibly proud. We leave as the place closes at dusk, and I snap this photo.
I don’t know how to feel about this picture. It is ridiculous, but I totally get it.
