Page 112 of Death of the Author
“It’s not my first.”
BLAM!!!
“My God,” Zelu whispered.
“Oh, that’s right,” Mona said. “I’m sorry.”
Zelu looked at Mona with a frown. Mona took her hand and led Zelu off the gun range. In the quiet of the shop, Zelu threw off her earmuffs and leaned against the counter. “My God.”
“So sorry about that,” Mona said. “I should have had us wait.” She paused, looking at Zelu. “I... I know you put the name Nicole Simmons, but come on. I know who you are.”
Zelu opened her mouth to speak, but it was as if someone had stolen her voice. Nothing came out. She grinned sheepishly and sighed. What’dshe expect? What other black woman with blue braids and cyan exos was there in Chicago?
“That’s why I scheduled so early,” Zelu murmured. “Figured no one else would be here on a Wednesday morning.”
“Don’t worry,” Mona quickly said. “I won’t tell a soul. We are black-owned, my patrons are black, this place is forus. Plus, people kind of treat the range like church. It’s sacred. It’s not anonymous, but there’s no judgment if you’re within the law. You’re safe here.”
The last three words hit her hard, and suddenly she felt like a burst dam. Her shoulders curled and the tears rushed forth. She wept, leaning against the counter, her exos supporting her, the memories of that horrible night flying about her head like wasps. Mona stood back, watching her. When Zelu began to quiet, Mona handed her a tissue.
Zelu took it and wiped her face. Odell came out of the gun range. He lifted his chin in acknowledgment at them both, patted Zelu on the shoulder once, and then he was off into the blizzard.
Mona gave her a sly grin. “So, you ready to do some shooting?”
Zelu wiped her face again. “Yes.”
At first, it was terrifying. She remembered all the instructions and safety. That was the easy part. Loading the pistol, a Glock 42, was a little scary, but she managed. Holding it up and pointing it at the target was easy, too. Slowly bringing her index finger to the trigger was not so hard. Closing her left eye and aiming with her dominant right eye was easy. It was pulling the trigger that was difficult.
She’d stood there for a good two minutes, her finger on the trigger, her right eye on the target. All she had to do was squeeze.Shewas the one who would make the noise now, not armed kidnappers or some stressed-out, high-powered Chicago lawyer. She was in control. But still, she hesitated. She thought aboutRusted Robotsand the main character, who understood deep in her circuits that true power was in the harnessing ofit, not the possessing of it. And when you were aware of the moment you harnessed power, that was when it was most difficult to navigate. Zelu stepped forward. Strong stance. Gun held firm, controlled, steady. Aim with right eye.
Blam!
This weapon’s noise wasn’t even a third as loud as that made by Odell the lawyer’s firearm. Still, the gun felt like something alive and treacherous in her hands. Dragon-like, for there was a millisecond of orange explosion from the tip as it fired. “Whoooa!” she said.
“You did it!” Mona said. “Look!”
She’d hit the center of the target. On her first try. Oh yes, she was ready to try it again.
And so it went. If some love affairs started with a bang, this was one of them. By the time the lesson was over, she’d fired forty rounds, never going outside the first circle of the six-circle target.
“Goddamn! You’re a natural,” Mona cheered. Zelu wondered if she said this to all the beginners to keep them coming back.
Well, it definitely worked on her. Because once the snow was cleared a week later, Zelu went again to rent a pistol and fire more rounds. Then again. And soon she was a member, and she knew Odell’s last name was Martin because she saw him at 8 a.m. twice a week.
Mona had her graduate from the pistol to a shotgun. Zelu didn’t say it aloud, but she wanted to get to Odell’s level. The night after her first time at the gun range, she’d had all manner of PTSD-flavored nightmares, but after the first five visits, her flashbacks had begun to decrease. Now she only had them once in a while.
“Can you teach me how to fire whatever it is Odell fires?” she asked Mona one day.
“You mean the tactical rifle?” Mona said, smirking.
“Yeah.”
The first time she shot one, she felt like she’d made a chip in space and time. “Holyshit!” she screamed, and then she just started laughing.
“Never imagined this would be you,” Mona said, looking at her. “Gonna write about you on my blog, if you don’t mind... Nicole.”
“Go right ahead,” Zelu said.
Zelu shot ten rounds that day. By the next month, it became twenty. After her shooting sessions, she felt more even-keeled, powerful, invincible, dangerous, able to defend herself. Though she wasn’t, she pretended she was ready for war and the gun was an extension of her arm. She had that level of control and knowledge. It felt good. She was not the same woman she had been back in Nigeria, when kidnappers tried to take her. She’d never carry weapons outside the range, but moving about the world knowing that she could not only accurately shoot a rifle but also break it apart, clean it, and put it back together fairly quickly gave her a nice ego boost. It made her feel dangerous even while people looked at her and saw weakness.
