He shrugs. “They found me.”
Which makes sense, I guess. If you’re in the encase-tarantula-in-resin business, you probably have to do a little outreach.
Are these the real Americans we hear so much about from politicians? Natural beauty queens, Vietnam vets, kiddie tarantula catchers? What about me, parading around Jerome in my city slicker clothes? What the hell is a real American, anyway? Can a country that prides itself on individualism actually have an identifiable type to hold up as exemplar of all that is America? Is John Wayne more of a real American than John Waters?
Meghan: Once we’re back in the car, Michael threatens to put Little Miss Natural Arizona’s CD in the stereo, but I cut him cleanly off at the pass. It’s a short drive to Jackie White’s ranch from here, and I’m not going to make it any longer by listening to the cat-screech stylings of a ten-year-old, no matter how adorable Michael may find her.
Along with being good friends with my mother, Jackie is also the mother of my college boyfriend, and luckily we have been able to keep a good relationship despite the fact that her son and I have not been a couple for a long time. He is still good friends with my brothers and remains one of the few exes that I have maintained a friendship with post-breakup—and if you want to get technical, he is the one guy I had brought around my parents, but only because I originally met him when he was hanging out with my brothers around our house. Jackie is an ER nurse and horse trainer, in addition to being hands down one of the toughest women I have ever known. She can best be described as a modern-day Annie Oakley or, as Stephie coined her, “Tough-As-Nails Jackie.” Michael calls her “what he imagined a pioneer woman being like.” Jackie’s ranch is more barren, spread out, and set deeper in the mountains than our cabin in Sedona. It is much dustier, and surrounded by cactus and a large horse corral. It is probably more of the stereotypical setting one would have of cowboys roaming in the Arizona desert.
I am both very excited and curious about how Michael will be at the shooting range. There are really no better people to supervise Michael’s first foray into shooting than Jackie White and my brother Jimmy. I remember the idea of gun slinging with my brothers came up rather early, back when we were writing our tour plans and book proposal. I found Michael’s enthusiasm and willingness fascinating, though maybe this is another lesson in not prejudging people. I had pretty much figured it wouldn’t be something he would even want to attempt, let alone in the middle of the Arizona desert with my navy pilot and former marine brothers.
Gun culture is hard to describe or rationalize to people who have not been exposed to it in any way. One of the things I was most surprised about when I first moved to New York City was the strange and almost visceral anger a lot of East Coast people have towards both guns and the protection of Second Amendment rights. Now, I hate stereotypes, but I’ve learned that it is a subject to avoid broaching with anyone who is not a gun owner, or from a state where gun culture has an intricate history of being something steeped in survival and pride—not to mention connected to a person’s ability to protect and provide for a family. Gun ownership is not just rednecks and hillbillies sitting on a front porch with a shotgun-draped lap; it’s also the man or woman who goes out and hunts in order to put meat on the table, or the people who sleep more soundly at night knowing they have a way of keeping their family safe from intruders or predators. Sure, there are also people who own guns just for the pleasure of going to a range and taking target practice, but is that really any different than hitting a small white ball with a club at a hole hundreds of yards away? Don’t tell me that you can’t kill a person with a golf club. I’m looking at you, Michael Skakel.
My perspective on guns and gun culture is pretty well documented, and by far one of the most conservative things about my political dogma. I am a strong Second Amendment supporter and card-carrying NRA member. One of the things I was worried about when President Obama got elected was that he was going to undermine and possibly even repeal the rights set forth in the Second Amendment. Looking back on it, it seems reactionary that I would think that, but I was not the only one—gun sales skyrocketed after he took office. Ironically, President Obama has of yet not done a single thing to erode the rights of gun owners, and we’re all quite honestly a little surprised. Not even the policies put forth in the wake of the Giffords shooting have resulted in any sort of legislation. It makes me think that there must be quite a few Democrats who love their guns too. In fact, in the midterm elections in 2010, the NRA backed fifty-eight incumbent House Democrats in the kinds of states where owning a gun is no big deal.
The one area where I sway from traditional NRA ideology is when it comes to extended high-capacity magazines, the kind that allow certain guns—specifically Glocks—to fire off more than thirty rounds at a time. It’s the type of weapon that Jared Loughner used to shoot Congresswoman Giffords in the tragic Tucson attack. I do believe that there need to be stricter regulations regarding individuals who have the ability to obtain certain types of guns, especially high-capacity magazines that should really only be used by law enforcement officials. That being said, I don’t think the responsibility of who guns are sold to should simply lay with gun sellers. There should be more conscious effort within communities and law enforcement, with a greater emphasis on flagging people who are risks to themselves or their communities.
I do worry on some level that if we start giving an inch with gun regulations, anti–Second Amendment rights supporters will take a mile. It just seems to be one of those issues, like abortion, on which it is difficult for both sides to find a compromise. I believe that Americans should have the right to defend themselves in any capacity but especially if, God forbid, anything ever happens to this country; people should always be allowed to be armed and able to defend themselves. After all, it is one of the main principles this country was founded on.
Michael: The NRA is a piece of shit organization. I don’t mean to denigrate any individual NRA member, and I don’t even object to an organization whose mission statement is being “the foremost defender of the Second Amendment.” Where I have a problem, and where I think a lot of reasonable people have a problem with the NRA is with its rigidity. The idea that any gun control law is a bad law is just plain nuts.
I likewise have trouble with the notion that we need ammunition whose only purpose is to defeat a bulletproof vest, that we should be able to carry concealed weapons wherever and whenever we want, and that we should not require significant background screening on people who want to buy guns. If it isn’t guns that kill people, but “people killing people,” shouldn’t we be a little more selective about who gets to wield a semiautomatic Glock capable of firing thirty-three rounds in under seventeen seconds? Because that’s what Jared Loughner did, and if he’d had a chance to insert another magazine, many more than thirteen people would have been killed or injured that day in Tucson. It seems that we’re more selective about who gets a LinkedIn invitation than we are about the people we let buy firearms. All that being said, I’m looking forward to shooting up some shit. Second Amendment, here I come.
The GPS takes us down a dirt road to Jackie’s ten-acre ranch, where we’ll be spending the night. The house is low and built from cinderblocks, the type of hardscrabble place you would expect in this part of the country. When we pull in, Jackie comes out to greet us, wiping her hands on her blue jeans. She’s probably around fifty, lean, and tan. Jackie built this house with her own hands and dug the holes for every fence post on the property. If it comes down to it, Jackie could kick my ass.
We park and get out and say hi to everybody: Jackie, her daughter Jessica who is in the air force, and Jessica’s air force roommate, Stephanie. I also meet Meghan’s younger brother Jimmy and his girlfriend, Holly. Unfortunately, Jack McCain had to get back to San Diego because he is on duty, but his roommates from the US Naval Academy, Mike and Kyle, have stayed for the festivities. I’m happy to see that my buddy Cindy McCain is also here.
Meghan�
�s brother Jimmy is twenty-three, handsome, and tattooed. He taught marksmanship in the service, and will be my gun instructor on the range. “Good to meet you,” I tell him.
“Sir, good to meet you.”
At first I think the “sir” is his way of subtly making fun of me for being a soft, liberal, Yankee pussy, but I soon realize it’s his Marine training. He calls Stephie “ma’am,” even though she is probably less than two years older than him and looks about five years younger.
Jimmy’s been out of the Marines about a year now even though he loved it. When I ask him why he left, he says it’s hard on your body to do what he did and he just got tired. He’s in school now, at Texas A&M, and he started a nonprofit called HonorVet that helps veterans adjust to civilian life. He tells me about a fundraiser they just had.
“I had a navy guy walk up to me with a check for three hundred bucks and he’s like, ‘That’s every cent I have but I believe in you guys so much and what you’re doing.’” It’s obvious how much Jimmy cares about the military, obvious how much pride he takes in what he used to do with them and what he does now. But all of it came at a cost, and it took him a long while to get his shit together. When he got out of the service he says, “Forever I just lived alone with my dog and I didn’t have a couch, so I’d lay on the floor with him and watch TV and just drink all day.”
He doesn’t get too much into specifics about what he did in the Marines, but Meghan tells me he served two deployments, including one in Iraq as part of the 2007 Surge. This was not a “senator’s son” situation either, where he hung out at HQ playing video games. Jimmy was in the thick of things and he’ll be the first to admit it cost him: as the day goes on, I notice him walking with difficulty. His back is fucked up, his stomach is fucked up, and his feet are fucked up too. Once, he fell into an open latrine pit and did not shower for four months. His feet and legs got infected and are beyond grim. Meghan tells me his feet look even grosser than mine. Cindy tells me that he will probably always be in some pain after his time in the Marines. Did I mention he’s only twenty-three?
Meghan: Jackie’s ranch sits on a few acres of land surrounded by stables with horses that she boards, and an area where she keeps rescued dogs. It is a classic ranch-style house: dusty and spread out, and also completely comfortable and low key. When we walk in, the television in the living room is showing Lonesome Dove, and scattered across the side kitchen table is what Michael describes as an “armory” of guns. The situation was not planned, but it’s about as clichéd as walking into an Arizona ranch house can be. I look over at Michael and he doesn’t seem weirded out or uncomfortable at all. Stephie looks like she might pass out on the floor, or at the very least run away. In fairness to her, there are a lot of people in the room sporting giant belt buckles and big Stetsons and other assorted versions of cowboy gear. It occurs to me that maybe people out East don’t think of Arizona as the West, so maybe the setup is a bit over the top, even by Prescott standards.
Before they can run out the door and drive the SUV back home, the time comes to gather up all the guns for Michael and Stephie to give it a go.
First, a little background information on my brother Jimmy. He is twenty-three years old and has just recently left the Marine Corps after serving two deployments—he enlisted when he was just seventeen. Everybody loves my brother Jimmy. He is charming, smart, and a roaring good time. He is by far my favorite person to drink with on planet Earth.
I didn’t know this until I told Jimmy that I was bringing Michael home for the Fourth of July, but apparently one of Jim’s favorite movies of all time is Wet Hot American Summer, featuring one Michael Ian Black. When I told Jimmy that I was writing a book with Michael, he was almost giddy. “That guy! I love that guy!” was his official response. As soon as Michael walks in, I can tell Jimmy is excited because he is geeking out a little bit, and there’s a part of me that breathes a huge sigh of relief.
When we gather up to go out to my brother’s giant truck—and by “giant truck” I mean the biggest Ford truck that is available for purchase—Jimmy offers Michael one of the extra Stetson cowboy hats that are lying around. Michael puts it on his head and asks Jimmy how it looks. Jimmy keeps a straight face, answering sternly, “Sir, it’s on backwards.” I put my hand over my mouth and nose to keep from snorting in laughter.
Michael: The dining room table is piled with guns. Heaps of guns. I can’t identify most of them because I do not know one gun from another, but there are rifles and handguns, and I recognize a big black M-16 semi-automatic assault rifle. There’s even an enormous “elephant gun,” whose shells are the size of small cigars. I ask what the elephant gun is used for. “Killin’ elephants.” Of course.
It truly is an arsenal in here. Jimmy, Mike, and Kyle have been cleaning the guns all morning in anticipation of taking us out shooting. Boxes of ammunition and holsters and mysterious firearm swabs and brushes are strewn about with the weaponry.
“Let’s go shoot,” says Meghan, and everybody seems fine with that.
The boys carefully pack up all the guns into hard plastic cases and a big green rucksack left over from Jimmy’s Iraq deployment.
Stenciled on the flap are Jimmy’s name and blood type and the words NO PREF.
“What does ‘no pref’ mean?” asks Stephie when we get out to the range.
“It means I don’t have a preference which religion reads me my last rites,” Jimmy says.
It’s going to be hot out there in the sun, so Jimmy gives me a black cowboy hat to wear. I slide it on as smoothly as I can. I touch the brim and let it rest low on my head. For the first time, I start to feel a little bit cool, at least until he tells me that I have it on backwards, sir.
We drive a couple of giant pickups over bumpy dirt roads until we get to state land, where it’s legal to shoot. We pull up in front of a small hill. One of the women drags an old wooden target from behind some brush while the guys unload the truck. I offer to help but they politely don’t trust me to touch anything.
Jimmy hands me a holster with a big .357 in it. The gun hangs low off my linen pants. As inconspicuously as I can, I make the first move towards drawing the gun from the holster and realize I have no idea how to get it out in a crisp way. If we have a gunfight out here, I am going to die.
Tough-As-Nails Jackie gives us a stern speech about gun safety before we head to the range. She’s serious. There is no screwing around with Jackie and guns. “Only one firearm is allowed to be on the range at a time. Keep your finger out of the trigger guard until you’re ready to shoot. Never point your gun at anything you do not intend to kill.”
Damn right. I am going to kill that target. Kill it dead.
They start me off with a .44–40 “mare’s leg,” which they also call the “zombie killer,” because it’s the gun Woody Harrelson used in the movie Zombieland. Republicans clearly do not understand that zombies are not real. It’s a cool-looking gun, first designed for a Steve McQueen TV show called Wanted: Dead or Alive. Jimmy shows me how to use it: swinging the barrel up to his waist, he cocks and fires all in one smooth motion. Fifty yards away, a big black hole appears in the target. He hands the gun to me and teaches me to sight the target. I swing it up to my waist like Jimmy did, cock the hammer, and pull the trigger. A clod of dirt explodes somewhere in the distance. I have not come anywhere near the target. I try lifting the gun closer to my shoulder, using two hands to support it instead of one like Jimmy. I fire. Miss. God, I feel stupid, standing here among these professional soldiers. Five more times I shoot the zombie killer, five more times I miss the target. Finally, shame-faced, I surrender my weapon.
Meghan: In all my time around guns and people shooting them, I have never seen anyone shoot anything in the middle of the Arizona desert wearing Crocs and linen pants, with one of my brother’s cowboy hats on his head and a Colt .45 in a holster around his waist. The most surprising thing about Michael’s outfit is how good he looks in a cowboy hat and how weirdly comfortable he seems
with a gun slung around his waist. Although I am somewhat biased and think most men look good in a cowboy hat, what can I say, Michael is pulling it off. Just avoid the Crocs.
I cannot believe Michael doesn’t start shaking or crying or something. I have seen people freak out at shooting ranges before, especially first-time shooters, but Michael takes to it like a fish to water, and one after another my brother brings several guns for Michael to shoot. I lean over to my sister and say, “I can’t believe he’s this much of a natural,” and she says, “I know, he doesn’t really seem like a guy that would be.”
I marvel at Michael’s ease as Jimmy hands him guns, saying, “This is the gun that Woody Harrelson uses to kill zombies in Zombieland . We nicknamed this one the ‘noisy cricket’ because it’s so small but so strong, like the noisy cricket in the movie Men in Black. This is the kind of rifle we carried around while we were on patrol in Iraq.” Michael tries every firearm he is handed and seems to enjoy every single one. When he finally turns around long enough for me to see the expression on his face, he looks giddy.
I yell, “It’s like the first time you got to second base, right?”
“Yeah, kind of,” he yells back.
Stephie, on the other hand, does not love her turn at all, and we break soon after to give her an out. I’m thrilled that I get to hold Michael making it to second base with a Colt .45 over him the rest of his life, but equally okay with Stephie not even wanting to unbutton its shirt. Stephie keeps the gun-loathing perspective in check and balances out Michael, our newest convert.
Michael: After shooting, we drive back to Jackie’s for a late lunch of homemade enchiladas and beef red chili before heading out to the Prescott Rodeo, “The World’s Oldest Rodeo,” dating from way back to 1888. Of course, when you do a cursory check on Google to find out the date and location of the world’s oldest rodeo, Prescott does not even make the list. Depending on which civic organization you choose to believe, the world’s first rodeo was either in Payson, Arizona, in 1884, Pecos, Texas, in 1883, or Deer Trail, Colorado, in 1869. But I’m not going to quibble with the residents of Prescott because I am a guest in their town and because they all have guns.
America, You Sexy Bitch Page 4