Falling Down The Stairs

Chapter Eight

The American Restor-Nation was the only gun range near where Sarah lived. She usually went twice a week to practice with her pistol, though she almost never carried it with her and had never had occasion to use it. Her mentor had a concealed carry and preferred to have his on his hip when he was out in the field. In Sarah's view, having the gun was needlessly confrontational; surprisingly, her mentor agreed. He just thought that was a good thing.

The range had been an old dog bar called Pups and Pours and still had much of the blue and yellow and bright green paint on the outside. A happy little cartoon doggy was above the front door and the owner had jerry-rigged a cardboard cutout of an assault rifle in his arms -- to her great shame, this made her laugh every time she saw it.

The owner was a man named James Tufton and everyone called him Jim and he had a gigantic belly covered by some manner of Hawaiian shirt every time she saw him and this time was no exception. Walking in the doggy front door led to a white and speckled tile floor that ended about twenty feet from the front door against a blue back wall. Cut into that blue back wall was a large rectangular hole and in that rectangular hole was Jim the Hawaiian shirt-wearing owner.

"Hey kid," Jim said. He was typing on a tablet computer and squinting at it through cheater glasses like it was the ark of the covenant. A white countertop was about a foot below the opening and on it was a desktop computer and a large printer and a small ticket-writing printer and some loose sheets of paper.

"Hey Jim," Sarah said. She was in a plain black t-shirt and blue jeans, and she carried a small leather bag in her left hand.

"Missed you last week. Everything alright?" he said.

"Traveling for work," she said. "You doing good?"

"Living the dream, as always."

Jim took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked very tired, and a little ill, to Sarah's eye.

"You sure you're okay?" she said.

"Working a lot, I guess. Had to let go a few of the guys to save money. Hell, I haven't taken a paycheck in three weeks. You'd think I'd be able to run a gun range in the south, of all places, but..."

Jim shrugged, and then looked back at the tablet, and then stopped, and looked back up at Sarah.

"Sorry, kid," he said. "I need to learn to shut my mouth."

He pressed a button on the tablet and the hand-held printer sitting on the white countertop whirred and spit out a ticket.

"Lane 14, all for you," he said mechanically, and handed her the ticket.

The target paper willowed away from her, flying towards the medium distance of the range. It was one among seven or eight among the mostly-gray range— sparsely filled, and the white countertops dustier than usual. There were a few regulars she knew but she only saw one tonight, a woman named Betty, and she was on the end shooting a .22 caliber pistol left-handed. Sarah loaded her nine millimeter and took aim.

Words from her mentor: Squeeze the trigger tight, don't just tap it; feel your grip in the fingers, not the palm; support hand thumb parallel to the barrel, for proper control. Bang bang bang, let the smoke clear, unless you're fighting for your life, and in that case, well, you know, just keep pulling the fucking trigger. Do I have to explain everything to you, kid?

Bang bang bang. Three in the chest. She unloaded her weapon and put the safety on and put it on the table in front of her. She reeled in her target paper and checked the shots. All fine, nice spread, about what she expected. She took it down, and put up another, and cast it back into the range, a little further this time. Sarah loaded up her gun and took aim.