Biting the bullet for the American Dream

When somebody asked me recently if I had actually done anything constructive during my time in California, I was aghast, I tell you, aghast. Was getting a tan not constructive? Was searching for the ultimate pedicure not constructive? Sipping cocktails in Santa Cruz? Well, apparently not.

I had decided to use my long sojourn in the US to learn to drive, encouraged by the Californian crew, who (confident that it would never happen) offered to lend me their zippy little sports cars should I manage to pass my test. Apparently, you can learn to drive in America from the age of six, sooner if you can reach the pedals, so I figured this should be a walk (or drive) in the park. But, no. Turns out, you can’t learn to drive in California unless you’re a resident. Sheesh.

So I had to come up something else. Something I wasn’t likely to do at home. Something truly American.

I would learn to shoot.

Freeze, mutha!

To be honest, shooting is not a skill that I deem particularly constructive. Indeed, bullets tend to be rather destructive, to put it mildly. But I also figured that if I were to live my own personal American Dream and date the entire male cast of CSI New York (preferably consecutively), it might serve as a useful topic of conversation over those obligatory, if superfluous, pre-nookie dinners.

Now, you might think that my bulging collection of crime novels, penchant for anyone who can make their way around an autopsy table dressed in Armani and uncanny ability to spot a desperate man at forty paces would have done the job, but I didn’t want to take any chances. If they happened to turn up for our dates in character between takes (I think they call it rhythm-method acting), I could then knowledgably admire their piece. A girl needs to be able to tell her bazooka from her Beretta.

Furthermore, cops and CSIs and people in compelling legal drama series sometimes have guns strapped on in the most unlikely places, just in case their ‘primary weapon’ fails and they need to lay their hands on, say, a double-barrelled-sawn-off-rocket-grenade-47-colt launcher. While members of the National Rifle Association, I’m led to believe, haul their stockpile around in plain sight in pickup trucks belonging to their brother (and/or cousin) Billy Bob, a really good screen cop with undercover experience can secret as many as a dozen weapons about his person and look like he’s just stepped out of the shower.

Aside from being a gripping theme for discussion over dessert, such weaponry can be a real issue for the uninitiated, especially if said TV cop has, indeed, just stepped out of the shower (at which point, you should probably begin to suspect that you have skipped the crème brulée). Just as men have never figured out how to undo a brassiere without giving a woman whiplash, disrobing and disarming a CSI in a moment of passion without causing him or, indeed, yourself near-fatal injury would qualify, I think, as a rare skill. And you need to avoid killing the moment.

If in doubt, ask a European

Not having the faintest idea how to go about acquiring this expertise, though, I decided to consult with the Californian crew, who I thought might be versed in such matters. And, sure enough, as Continental Europeans, some of them having spent time in military outposts, such as Saint Tropez, counting paperclips in the name of king (or other personage) and country, they felt pretty comfortable around semi-automatics. Alas, they didn’t whip out their Heckler & Kochs then and there for my perusal. They did, however, suggest a shooting range, complete with instructors, on Something-or-other Avenue.

It only remained, therefore, for me to coerce someone into driving me over there (I couldn’t learn to drive, remember?), as you can’t walk anywhere in California (it’s punishable by death) and in case the gun club gave me a sniper rifle with which to practise at home and I had to lug it back. Maximus was the obvious choice, as he has done some sports shooting (possibly, I fantasised, while clad in Iron Man-like latex, on skis, against a snowy Nordic backdrop) and is very unlikely to kill me, being very fond of my mother and regularly plied with whiskey by my father.

Being a man of keen mind, however, he shrewdly assessed that there was a sliver of a chance that I might actually shoot him should he criticise my technique just once too often, so he gamely volunteered his other half, The Lovely C, in his stead. Any participation by Le Grand Belge, incidentally, was ruled out by the fact that he’s a registered conscientious objector and could be thrown into a dungeon in Flanders for laying a trigger finger on anything resembling a conscientious object.

A somewhat different day out

Now, The Lovely C and I have gone and had our legs waxed together, braved Macy’s at sale time, even debated the merits of blue versus yellow tortilla chips, but this was a new departure. Incredibly, she knows her way around a rifle, but as it’s politically incorrect to ask a German where they gleaned such knowledge, I settled for raising an eyebrow and giving a brief nod of assent. I then rang my lawyers, Glock, Smith & Wesson, to double-check that I couldn’t be sent to Guantanamo for endangering random people on a firing range, even by accident, and was told I was good to go.

I should mention, at this point, the potential hitch in my cunning plan: I hate guns. Guns kill people. I detest being around them. I grew up in a country where the police consider a large potato a lethal weapon. The merest glimpse of Charlton Heston makes me want to reach for a bottle of vodka and lie down in a darkened room. Nor am I too keen on blood, something that put a conclusive end to my parents’ hopes of a doctor in the family. In short, I abhor the very thought of guns, which is not really what an instructor wants to hear when you roll up to a shooting range and ask to be given a firearm.

The other problem, of course, is knowing what to wear on such an occasion. Trinny and Susannah’s handy pocket-sized, fail-safe fashion guide doesn’t exactly spell out what goes with a Magnum PI, or whatever it’s called. Having a limited wardrobe with me in any case, I decided to dispense with the high heels in case I got vertigo, fell over and shot someone, and opted for sensible black boots, thinking that if anyone disagreed with my choice, I could always threaten them by waving my soon-to-be gun. Up our fashionably tailored sleeves, though, we had the ultimate accessory – Maximus’ car (Maximum Ride).

There’s comfort to be had in driving towards your first bullet wound in a sleek and shiny Corvette, with the top down and the stereo giving the San Andreas Fault a run for its money. It’s a bit like flying Business Class when you hate flying – at least you know you’re going to go down in classier flames with a glass of Champagne or two already down your gullet.

So I got on the blower to book us in.

(To be continued ...)


© Poilin Breathnach 2009