A selection of firearms at the Bullseye Indoor Shooting Range.
By Ian Ferguson
Fast approaching my 21st birthday, I realized that I had yet to shoot a real gun – unthinkable for an amendment-abiding American patriot. Each year’s 30,000 firearm-related deaths in the United States aside, when Bruce Willis knocks that gun from the hostage-taker’s hand and it skitters across the floor to stop at my feet, I had better be able to shoot it well. Imagine how much the other hostages would hate you if you messed that one up. So I drove out to Bullseye Indoor Shooting Range in San Rafael for an hour on the range.
I’ve a few excuses for having never shot a gun: my parents. As long as I lived under their roof, their patience topped out at Nerf. There’s also my homecounty, Marin – for all its open spaces it doesn’t much tolerate guns, probably because if you fire into what appears to be open space, nine times out of 10 you’ll shoot out the window of some hedge fund manager’s house nestled invisibly among forest and hill. And there’s my wallet: shooting isn’t cheap. This trip left a hole in it as large as any in the targets. Maybe that’s why the war costs so much…wait, nope, forgot about Blackwater.
Located in the warehouse district of San Rafael, Bullseye’s range fits into an unassuming, gray, single-story concrete shell of a building. (I have no idea how they keep the bullets from ricocheting around the inner walls, or piercing through them.) Inside, guns and targets line the walls as the mostly male, mostly crew-cut, mostly Army-fit staff signs shooters in from behind a glass display case. On a backpack leaning against the cash register I noticed two patches: an American flag and a military patch reading “Pork-Eating Crusaders.”