Savages

133

Chon takes Ben to the firing range.

Which is filled today as usual with police types, military types, and women, a few of whom are police or military types.

OC women love shooting those guns, man. Maybe Freud was right, whatever, but they’re in there with their earrings (off for the headsets) and jewelry and makeup and perfume blasting away at potential burglars, home invaders, rapists, and actual (okay, not actual) husbands, ex-husbands, boyfriends, lovers, fathers, stepfathers, male bosses, male employees who give them shit …

It’s a truth-worn joke that women at firing ranges aim not for the head but the groin, that they’re shooting not for the bull’s eye but for the snake’s eye until the instructors just give up and teach them to aim at the knees because that pistol is going to throw high so they’ll catch boyfriend/hubby/daddy/ex-boyfriend/ex-hubby square in the junk.

Take O, for instance.

Chon took her to the range one day for giggles and shits.

The girl could shoot.

A natural.

(We mentioned that O likes power tools, right?)

She squeezed off six shots—two at a time, like Chon told her—and smacked each of them into fatal spots on the target. Lowered the pistol and said, “I think I came a little.”

Now Chon hands Ben a pistol.

“Just point and shoot,” Chon tells him. “Don’t overthink it.”

Because Ben overanalyzes everything. Chon is surprised the boy can piss without succumbing to mental paralysis. (Would it be better to take my dick out with my right hand or my left hand? Would the choice of left hand have a subconscious connection to concepts of “sinister,” as opposed to my right hand feeling “dexterous,” and why is urine running down my leg?)

And truly, Ben is looking at the target silhouette and wondering if there are African-American shooting ranges where the target is a white figure on a field of black, a menacing KKKer coming out of the Mississippi night. Probably not. Not in the OC (which zealously guards its Second Amendment rights), anyway, where they should just put a sombrero on the targets and get it over with.

Take that, Pancho. And that, and that.

Ben hates this, how totally out of place he feels in this very weird, neofascist sandbox, looking at the black, albeit deracialized, silhouette figure staring menacingly at him as Chon is saying something about—

“Point and shoot twice.”

“Twice.”

Chon nods. “Your hand-eye coordination automatically corrects for the second shot.”

“What should I aim at?” he asks Chon.

“Just hit the damn thing,” Chon answers. At the range they’re probably thinking about, it won’t matter, and anyway, hydrostatic shock is going to do the job. The bullet hits, creating a wall of blood that hits the heart like a tsunami wave—side out.

Ben points and shoots.

Twice.

Bam bam.

Misses the whole silhouette.

Twice.

So much for self-correction.

“You’re going to have to get better at this,” Chon says.

Recalling what his SEAL instructors said:

The more sweat on the training ground …

. . . the less blood on the battleground.