DOES CUPID HANG OUT AT THE SHOOTING RANGE?

“Where’d you learn to shoot, little lady?” he winks at me and raises his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows in that “you’re just a sweet little thang and lucky I bothered to notice your tight little hind quarters” way.  

I sniff; set down my headphones and head for the exit, trying to contain that swaying thing my butt does when I wear my boots with these jeans.  No sense encouraging the jerk.

“You got aim!” he calls after me, and when he chuckles he sounds like some kind of appliance on the fritz.  I know he’s thinking “you don’t know it but I use this line on every little honeylamb comes through this shooting range trying to handle a gun so she can protect herself when some scumbag breaks into her frilly little apartment; but she’s not going to be Wonder Woman when it happens, no matter how many hours she spends at the shooting range, she’s gonna turn into Miss Muffet.”

I keep walking outside to the parking lot hoping he doesn’t follow.   

Last time it was a young kid, not twenty, still dealing with a little acne and that whole hands and feet too big for the legs and arms thing that another year of growing will cure.  Something was wrong with his eyesight too.  He acted like he saw Casanova played by Brad Pitt in the mirror.  

He followed me to the parking lot; and sidled up to me.  

“Nice shooting in there.  I find violence in a woman very attractive.”

This would have got a big laugh in a theater in one of those movies about some loser trying to upgrade.

“There’s medication for that.” I said, glaring with what I hoped looked like utter contempt.  I turned and walked away, listening to his fake laughter.

Gosh, what I have to put up with just to have a hobby!

You’d think a guy wouldn’t hassle a woman at a shooting range. I mean, why don’t they feel intimidated? Doesn’t it occur to them that she might be a little deranged, maybe even hiding a weapon in her purse?  At the very least  why don’t they worry that she could be packing a deadly combination of mace and PMS?  

That’s the real reason I took up shooting, I just want to be a little intimidating to somebody.  I’m short and my voice tends to high and breathy and guys always think I’m fragile and younger than I am.   I’m getting pretty tired of being called “little lady.”  I want to be taken seriously and I figure, an ability to wield deadly force might help a little.

I’ll admit that I also took up guns to meet guys.  But it didn’t work, at least not like I thought it would.  I keep meeting all kinds of Mr. Wrong. 

I’ve spent enough time at the shooting range to know I’m never going to find the love of my life there.  The guys who hang out at the shooting range still have faded “Bush-Cheney” bumper stickers on their dented Cadillacs and pickups;  I prefer the kind of loser that hasn't removed his  “Gore-Lieberman” from his  Toyota and will let me pay for dinner (but not every time).  Like Kirby, a guy I met in the waiting room at the optometrist; now there was some serious dating potential, that is, until he told me about his, er, rash......

Yes, I’m disappointed, but my time here at the shooting range hasn’t been a complete waste.  Sure I have to put up with these petty annoyances, but I feel taller just knowing I could kill them if I ever needed to.

 I’ve  left Mr. “Honeylamb” in the dust, but he’s left me in a bad mood.  I’ve decided I’m not coming back to the shooting range.   I’ve got my little pink (yes, pink) pistol the size of cigarette lighter in my purse and I know how to use it.  That’s all a girl really needs, right? 

 I get in my teensy little pink sports car  (yes, pink) and push the accelerator hard, flying out the exit road that winds through woods.  

Out of nowhere there’s a flash of man in a green uniform and I’m forced to torture my brakes big time.  A million things happen in one second:  I think “oh, damn!”; the man covers his ears to blot out the screech of my tires; he looks at me through the windshield in sheer terror because he’s thinking, “Sheesh, what a stupid way to die!” because there’s no time to jump out of the way.   And I’m thinking maybe he flashes for a second on “Hey, she’s kinda cute!” or “How’d she get a car this color?”

Somehow, miraculously, my car scores a perfect 800 on the Physics SAT and comes to a stop before hitting that uniform.  I’m shaking and out of breath, with a superhuman grip on the steering wheel.   I look up and get a good look at him.

He’s not too tall, not too dark, not too handsome.  He has ears a little too small, eyes a little too big, a little gap between his front teeth when he smiles, which he is doing in almost tearful relief as I get out of my car and begin to apologize.

“Jeez, I’m sorry.  You all right?”

“Me?   What about the ducks?” he says.

And I think, “Oh, great, another one.”   

“I was playing crossing guard for them when you zoomed out of nowhere and--”

He points to a family of ducks that are toddling in single file across the road, and -- is it my imagination or is Mama Duck sending me a hateful glance as they go by?   The nerve!  Hey, I’ve got a gun  in my purse and I could make you somebody’s dinner in a Chinese restaurant? You fine feathered ---.  You almost got me and this weird-o killed! 

“Crossing guard?  Hello?  They’re birds!  BIRDS.”

“I’m a park ranger.  It’s my job to look after them.”

“Oh.”

A park ranger.   

I gotta admit, the ducks are adorable, waddling across the street like they own the place.  Which they do I guess, since this is government-protected parkland.  The babies look like they’ve all got bad haircuts, but I kinda like their little webbed feet. 

“Make Way for Ducklings!” he says cheerily.

This guy’s getting to me. 

“Wow.”  I say, “That was one of--”

“My favorite books when I was little.”  We say it together.  We both smile.

That gap between his teeth is looking, well, really charming.  I toss my hair and find myself wondering if he’s noticed how great I look in these jeans.  Thank goodness I lost all that weight.

“Yeah.”  I say.  And then, I’ve got no idea what to say next.

“Cute car.”  he says.  

“Thanks.” I say.

“I don’t think that color would have looked good on me.”

We both laugh.  Yes, he’s definitely flirting with me.

I sigh, look around, willing my brain to come up with something witty to say.  Brain is apparently in neutral, because nothing comes.  

Then, my eyes stray to his name tag.

 “Again, I am so sorry, Mr.....Wright."

THE END