The Good Men Project

An Original Cowboy

Ed, the instructor, ushered his three newest students into a tiny basement room of his building in a suburb west of Boston.  We sat down on plastic chairs around a flimsy card table. Laid out before my two friends and me were twenty-five handguns:  revolvers and semiautomatics ranging from a tiny Saturday night special to a huge .44 Magnum cannon of a weapon.  There was enough hardware to rob a good-sized bank or to pin down a local police department.

Over the next eight hours I learned a lot about guns: the parts (frame, barrel, action), the ammunition (case, primer, powder charge, and bullet), general safety (always point in a safe direction, keep your finger off the trigger until ready to shoot, and keep the gun unloaded), how to operate a handgun, how to clean a weapon, and how to stand to maximize aim.  I learned that I am left-eye dominant (even though I am right-handed), and how to hold my breath while gently squeezing the trigger.  I also learned never to take anyone else’s word on whether a gun is unloaded, even if the guy handing the weapon to you is the president of the United States.  Look in the cylinder yourself.

Truth be told, I found the whole experience pretty boring.  My two friends had come to get their National Rifle Association certification along with the state police certificate of firearms safety that would allow them to obtain Class A licenses to carry handguns.  I had no interest in any of that.  I just wanted to get a bit of an education in guns and guys.  You know, a Good Men Project field trip of sorts.

A funny thing happened to this Quaker pacifist midway through the afternoon session as Ed droned on about proper shooting stance.  A good-sized .22-caliber found its way into my hands (unloaded, of course).  The thing felt heavy and powerful.  I kept swinging out the cylinder, which was capable of holding ten bullets, and spinning it around before locking it back in place and firing off a couple of empty rounds into the corner of the room.  Visions of the Wild West stirred in my imagination (even though Ed made it clear that there really never were shoot-outs, that most of the killings in the West occurred during surprise attacks).  Something about holding that chunk of steel capable of taking life made me feel manly.  I hate to admit it, but it’s true.

Finally it was time to take the written exam, the culmination of the day’s activities. My two friends, who had already picked out the guns they wanted to buy for home protection, struggled a bit with the questions.  I really hadn’t been listening much but mysteriously breezed my way through and handed in my paper first.  I scored a 96 percent on the test, far and away the best score.

“Congratulations!” Ed said as he handed me my two certificates.  For an instant I almost changed my mind about gun ownership, the allure of that .22 still in the back of my mind.  But then I thought of my kids and remembered why I would never want a gun anywhere near them.  But I did feel just a tiny bit more macho for having learned how to handle one.  -TOM MATLACK