I Can't Even Shoot Straight

By Timothy State

"I'm kind of nervous," I said, turning to Misty Dawn, on the first night of our weekly Lake Forest Citizens' Police Academy class. Misty is a thin, fashion-conscious divorced mother of three.

"You're nervous?" Misty Dawn straightened her stretch pants. "I'm nervous too. I mean, after my son-you know he's a cop-after my son showed me the video of the guy dying from the gunshot wounds, I mean, like, jeez."

"Go ahead and put on the ear protection and safety glasses," our Hot Cop instructor said. He had an ass built like a cocktail shelf. I caught myself gazing at the bulbous orb, wondering what size underwear was necessary to contain it-it was a work worthy of being wrapped by Christo and Jeanne-Claude.

We were told to go to a shooting stall and pick up the gun. In case we needed help, Hot Cop stood behind Misty Dawn and me. I held my first gun, a brand new Sig Sauer P220 .45-caliber. I struggled with which hand to hold it in and Hot Cop approached. "Pick it up with the hand you throw a ball with."

I spun around. "Like, I throw."

"Okay," he said, maintaining a professional face, but had he been drinking milk, it would have flown from his nose. "Umm, whatever feels right, just put it in that hand."

"Watch it with that kind of language around this guy," Misty Dawn said to Hot Cop. "Never know what's going to feel right in his hand." Misty Dawn put on glasses and headphone style ear protection. She fluffed her Alberto V05 hair.

"I like those in black on you," I said to her.

"Oh, thank you." She struck a pose.

"It's, how should I say, slimming?"

"I've got a gun."

We loaded our weapons. Hot Cop's hands were on mine, helping guide the fake bullets. "That's good," he'd say. "Just like that."

Once we were comfortable with the feel of the gun in our hands, we loaded real bullets. I fired off a round, shooting a hole in the head of the target. Hot Cop stood behind me, running his hands along my biceps and triceps, guiding me into the proper form. With the ear protection on, every word sounded like a whisper. Firing off round after round, I would drop into poor form, only to have Hot Cop correct me.

"Sorry," I'd say.

"It's okay. You're doing fine. Okay, now get your sight on target... remember, finger off the trigger until you're sure of the target, and just pop one off." Just pop one off. It was casual. Like good friends hanging out, shooting guns, and then sharing a cigarette.

Two magazines later, I set the gun down, took off my safety glasses and ear protection, and ran my hands through my hair like I had just washed with Herbal Essence.

"Whew!" I let out an exhilarated sigh.

"Did you like it?" Misty Dawn asked me.

"Oh, yes," I said.

"I got all distracted and disoriented," she said, arms flailing. "I couldn't even count the rounds."

"You should have kept your eye on the target."

"I had my eye on the target."

"I meant the paper target, not Hot Cop."

"I think you got the target, not me," she said with disdain.

"What can I say? I'm a shooter."



tstate2.jpg Timothy State grew up in the Pacific Northwest, attending college in the Midwest at Lake Forest College and completing a ten-year tour in the capital of the South, Atlanta. He no longer knows how to pronounce anything. Most recently, his stories "The Palm Reader" and "No Chance" were published in the Lammy-nominated New Orleans anthology Love, Bourbon Street. In 2004, Timothy was recognized as one of Georgia's "Newest and Most Promising Writers" by the O, Georgia! Writers Foundation. His blog, "Balancing Boyfriends" (www.balancingboyfriends.com) has been highlighted by The Bottom Line Magazine as a "Best Gay Blog," and by HomoMojo.com's "Best of Gay Blogging." Best Gay Blogs says about his blog, "the voice is smart, the tone original." His video work has been featured in Image Film and Video's "Shorts Slam!", and his "Postcards from Graceland"--perspectives from a road trip to the 20th Anniversary Commemoration of Elvis Presley's passing--has been adapted for the stage by an Atlanta theatre company.