Regina and I took a concealed carry class together, and the instructor went to work in another state right after we completed the course. I’m not sure that was a coincidence.
Our instructor, who conducted a private class for us, had served in the military in Afghanistan and as a police officer, but some incidents during our lessons rattled him.
Neither Regina nor I are big gun enthusiasts, but folks we know who have concealed carry permits talked us into taking the class for safety purposes in these crazy times.
Regina has five brothers and has been around guns all her life. On my few duck and dove hunting trips, I had to borrow shotguns. There are a lot of tennis outfits in my closet but not much camouflage gear.
So our teacher, who looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger, realized right away that he had an aggressive student with Regina and a soft, sneaker-wearing novice with me.
We spent much of our first class filling out a detailed application. It must be the same form the government uses to hire Secret Service agents.
There was a lesson on how to load our handguns. Then the instructor let us “shoot” at some targets in his office with laser guns. I barely hit the huge target with the red beam.
The instructor was shaken when he noticed that I had picked up the pistol he had just taught me to load instead of the laser gun and was aiming at the target in the small office.
He retrieved the weapon without bloodying me up. But he never quit watching me out of the corners of his eyes after that.
Even though I was the one who caused him the most concern at first, it was Regina who scared the daylights out of him in the informational session.
The instructor asked Regina which eye was dominant when she aimed a gun, and she didn’t know. He handed her an AK-47 from the arsenal in his office and asked her to close one eye and look through the sights.
Regina aimed with her left eye, which the teacher designated as dominant. Then her spirit of adventure made her pull the trigger. Plastic pellets spewed from the rifle and ricocheted off the walls. The paper target used for the laser gun was shredded.
It concerned me that the guy teaching us about self-protection tried to dive under his desk. His muscles kept him from fitting in that small area, so pellets bounced off all three of us.
When we went to the woods for the shooting part of the course, the instructor saw that I was staring into space as he talked. Then he realized I had orange sponge earplugs in my ears and a big Bose headset on over those.
He asked about it, and I explained that I didn’t want all that gunfire to hurt my hearing. He was looking at me out of the corners of his eyes, but they still rolled a little.
Regina easily passed her shooting test. When I waded into the weeds to shoot, I asked if he had ever seen ticks in the woods and told him that I was afraid of ticks and allergic to them. He put down some plywood for me to stand on, and his eyes rolled again.
I’m not sure any of my shots hit the target. He said they were close enough and quickly signed the papers to pass me and get me out of there.
When I got back to work and went to some meetings, I knew all that shooting had messed up my hearing. I had to keep asking people what they were saying.
As soon as I got home, I told Regina the gunfire had created serious hearing problems for me just as I thought it would. She pointed out that I was still wearing the orange earplugs. It was hard to explain that to folks at work the next day.
Regina’s permit came in the mail several weeks later, but mine was not with it. I tried to call our instructor to express my concern but got a message that the cell number was no longer in service.
My license finally arrived, but any bulge in my coat pocket is still more likely to be a package of Twinkies than a weapon.
If I ever do have to use a handgun, I hope I have enough time to put in the orange earplugs.
REPRINTED FROM THE NATCHITOCHES TIMES