Trick of Light

by Hunt-David

  "Surely you took drawing class at art school?"

  "Yeah... but it's been years."

  "Were you good?"

  "Not bad."

  "Well then, why not try it?"

  I shrug. Maybe he's right. Since writing often clarifies my thinking, perhaps drawing will do the same. Then I laugh. "I know why you want me to draw the gun. You want to see what those erotic drawings are about. As if you need any ideas along those lines, Sasha!"

  * * * * *

  This morning I put on my heavy shades, then walk down to the Art Institute. At the supply store, I buy a sketchbook and a good set of charcoal drawing crayons.

  Returning to my apartment, I set to work trying to recreate the scenes on the gun.

  My first efforts are pathetic. I draw the people as stick figures. Then, when I try to refine them, the women come out looking like pinup girls and the guys like cartoon hunks. I rip out the sheets and tear them in half. The figures weren't like that at all, they were beautifully, indeed superbly, engraved.

  By midafternoon I'm satisfied I've got at least one scene down fairly well: a woman sandwiched between two men, their six legs emerging at divergent angles from the sprawl, while a second nude woman sits beside them tickling their genitals, the focus of the composition.

  Having gotten the figures right, I do my best to re-create the setting — trees, grass, a sylvan glade.

  Working on these elements, I suddenly remember the setting wasn't woodsy, rather was a clearing in a jungle, with numerous animals — monkey, fox, leopard, gazelle and variety of birds — curiously watching the humans cavort.

  Recalling the detailed manner in which the animals were engraved, I try sketching them on separate sheets. There was, I remember, something special about them, a strong particularity and an intensity about their collective gaze.

  Again, my first efforts are poor, the animals coming off like creatures in a comic strip. But as I work I realize that though they were better drawn, they were rendered a little like cartoons. It was their faces, I remember, that were individualized... in the manner of cartoon animals. Then I get it! They had human features incorporated into their animal faces. Though they were unmistakably animals, their countenances were portraits, so well drawn there could be no question that they were based on real people. So — four faceless humans having sex in a clearing, observed by a virtual zoo of human-faced animal-voyeurs hidden in the foliage.

  Whose faces? I wonder. G.G.C. members? Ramsey Carson's "inner circle"? Whoever, they were expertly transposed by the engraver. Then I wonder: Was this the gun that Maddy was looking for?

  * * * * *

  Tonight I drop in on Sasha, show him my drawings. He's entranced.

  "You draw beautifully, Kay."

  I nod. "I forgot how much I used to like it. I could never paint. The colors always defeated me. But drawing was something I could do as well as anyone. So I worked hard at it. Then, in art school, I got interested in sculpture — which is also monochromatic. I wanted to be a sculptor till I discovered black-and-white photography. Until last night, I doubt I've drawn anything since sophomore year."

  He holds up the jungle scene. "Quite a picture!"

  "Yes, and the engraving's even better. Whoever did it was a real artist. I think this scene's the main panel on one side of the gun. There's another jungle scene on the other side, plus smaller scenes on top of the lever, the bottom plate and the trigger guard. There's also scrollwork, phalluses and vulvae, beautifully stylized, repeated over and over as a motif. The engraving's highly erotic, but I wouldn't call it pornographic. It's not vulgar. In fact, it's extremely refined. The best sort of erotic art really, except there's something creepy about it when you see it on a gun."

  Sasha nods. "The eroticism of violence." He takes my hand, brings it tenderly to his lips. "Even touching you with it, they were committing a kind of rape."

  "Yes," I murmur sadly. "That's what it was. Which is why I hate them more than I can say."

  * * * * *

  We go out to dinner in North Beach. Finding a free table at Rose Pistola, we order half a bottle of sauvignon blanc, a split bowl of pasta rags with pesto and a plate of deep-fried anchovies.

  We talk while we wait for our food.

  "You're sure it was a real bee?" Sasha asks.

  "Of course! Why not? Bees fly in through windows, then get trapped. I remember — this one dive-bombed my head."

  "Could it have been a fly?" he asks.

  "No way!"

  The bee bothers me. Its buzz was so loud it's hard to believe it wasn't real. True, in my delirium that night I thought I could hear the sounds of the jungle, the chirping of the watcher-animals, the heavy breathing and moans of the lovers in the glade. But on some instinctive level I believe the bee must be the key. It was too prominent, too pervasive, buzzed too loud, I remember it too well.

  Sasha, understanding my frustration, suggests I try and free-associate.

  "You mean like this: Bee, bees, hive, honey, sting, queen, drone... sex?"

  He raises an eyebrow. "Is that where the bee leads you?"

  "The context was erotic."

  "Give it another try."

  "Hmmm. Bee, hive, honey, honeycomb, honeydew, honeysuckle, honeymoon... sex."

  He laughs. "You're hilarious."

  * * * * *

  Later that night, after gently making love to me, Sasha, who's been quietly thoughtful since dinner, turns to me in the dark.

  "I wonder if you're a synesthete."

  "Jesus!" I turn to him. "What's that?"

  "I already know you are — the way you 'hear' colors, associate them with musical instruments."

  "The crimson sound of flutes, the gold of clarinets."

  He nods, pats my hand. "Don't worry — synesthesia isn't a disease. It's not even a psychological condition. Just a phenomenon certain people experience, a crossover of the senses. Some synesthetes 'hear' colors. Others 'taste' sounds. Or they associate a particular shape with a particular word. A synesthete might say, "This chicken tastes too round."

  "That's kinda poetic."

  "Often it is. Drugs such as LSD and Ecstasy can cause synesthesia. Rohypnol too. It's known to distort, exaggerate, transform sounds into visions, visions into tastes and smells. So I'm thinking — why not the reverse?"

  "You're saying I made up the sound of the bee?"

  "Not at all. I think you converted it from something you saw. I think you saw a bee somewhere on that gun, and the image got transferred in your mind into the sound of a bee buzzing in your ear."

  I'm excited hearing this, but still confused. "Why just the bee?" I ask. "Why not all the other creatures on the gun?"

  Sasha smiles, the smile of a wise psychiatrist. "What was so special about that bee? That's what you have to discover. My suggestion is stop puzzling over the sound. Instead draw the bee, draw it over and over until the image tells you why you converted it."

  * * * * *

  Dad calls. Rusty ran a background check on Vince Carroll. Dad gives me the results.

  "You were right, darlin', Carroll was a deputy sheriff, pretty good one too, it turns out. He was doing fine, on the promotion fast track, then it all went sour. Happens to the best of 'em. This was a police brutality case with Carroll the key witness. Seems one night his partner got drunk, arrested a suspect and beat him... which, maybe, wouldn't have been so bad except the arrestee was innocent. Carroll tried to stop him, the partner turned on Carroll, knocked him out. At the trial, Carroll told the truth, his buddy went to prison, three years state time, which made Carroll a snitch. He stuck around, but no one would work with him. Eventually he was forced to quit. Then, like a typical out-of-work cop, he got depressed, got divorced, began to drink. He'd about hit bottom when he lucked into a good job, security director for a gunning club. The money was good too, lots more than a deputy makes. But they say something changed in him. He started out this straight-arrow type, incorruptible, pure blue flame of justice, but after the trial
he turned bitter, told his friends it wasn't worth being a good cop, no one appreciated it, no one cared about anything except greasing his own wheel. He also went around saying everyone in county law enforcement was on the take from the marijuana growers, talk that didn't make him very popular. That's about it, darlin'. People Rusty talked to say Carroll's not a guy to mess with. I'd stay away from him I were you. I know his kind. Got a lot of rage bottled up. You open the bottle, the rage flies out, then anything can happen."

  * * * * *

  If you don't drive a car, it's a long trip to Nevada City. I take a Greyhound to Sacramento, change for Reno, get off at Auburn, pick up the local Gold Country line that takes me into the historic center of town. From here, as instructed, I call Personal Security Ranch from a pay phone. Twenty minutes later a guy in a cowboy hat pulls up in a dusty pickup. He gestures for me to jump in.

  His name's Mike, he's about my age. As we drive I'm able to get a few things out of him, namely that he's "Miss Dakota's" number-one ranch hand and Mr. Fix-it, doing most everything around her place from gunsmithing to heavy labor. Also, that he's got an M.A. in comparative lit from Yale.

  "Dakota's the finest tactical handgun instructor I ever met," he tells me. "Great shot too. No one, man or woman, can outgun her. Not even me, and I tell you, I'm pretty damn good. I got nothing but respect for the lady. You come to her green, you leave combat-trained. She works your butt off, but when you leave you know your stuff."

  Sounds good to me.

  We wind our way through the hills, past deserted mines, then descend into a valley on a dirt road. It's rugged country, the road's powder, we raise a trail of dust. The Sierras loom above us, majestic peaks, snowcapped in winter and, Mike tells me, so colorful in autumn people come from all over the West to view the foliage.

  He turns to me. "You're color-blind, aren't you, Kay?"

  I nod.

  "Dakota told me. Shouldn't affect your training though. You get your sight-picture right, you got it made." He makes a pistol out of his right hand, fires off three mock shots. "Do the ol' Mozambique!" And then, before I can ask him what he means, he announces: "Well, here we are."

  We drive in through a cow gate. Personal Security Ranch, it turns out, occupies what was once a kids' summer camp. Many of the wooden structures, bleached and baked dry by the sun, are partially decomposed, but the main building, a ranch house, has been nicely restored.

  Dakota Kass opens the door. At first I don't recognize her. Though she's wearing a holster and gun, she appears smaller and more feminine than in the photos in her brochure. Perhaps it's her hair. Now it hangs free, swings as she moves, while in the photos it was tied back. Also, in the photos she wore shooting glasses and ear protectors, and stood in aggressive combat postures.

  She greets me with a smile. "Come meet the others," she says.

  We enter a main room decorated with ceramics, saddles, horse blankets, a rack of rifles and a large painting of a historical Native American encampment. Five women stand about awkwardly, sipping Cokes and beers. I'm rapidly introduced to Cheryl, Diane, Caroline, Lydia and Liz. Four more will be joining our class, Dakota tells me, making a total of ten.

  While Dakota confers with Mike, I mingle with the women, all of whom wear holstered side arms. They turn out to be an interesting group. Cheryl, I learn, is a web site designer, Diane a rancher, Caroline a "mom," Lydia a high school soccer coach and Liz an attorney. Each comes from a different part of the state. When they hear I'm from San Francisco, a certain amount of merriment erupts.

  "We think of San Francisco as gun control territory," Liz explains.

  "Also Sodom and Gomorrah," says Cheryl, adding that she's from San Jose.

  Dakota rejoins us. "Couple months back, we had a woman from Berkeley. That really caused a stir!"

  Laughter, then more conversation. I learn that Diane, Lydia, a woman named Sharon and I will be sharing the bunkhouse, while the others will be staying at a motel ten miles away.

  Mike is assigned to fix me up with a weapon. After showing me to the bunkhouse so I can stow my gear, he leads me to a small outbuilding just off the range, unlocks the door, then, inside, works the combination on a closet-size safe.

  In it, neatly stowed on racks, is an array of small arms, pistols and revolvers of different sizes and calibers.

  "Dakota thinks you'll be happy with a 9mm automatic," Mike says, picking out several pistols, extracting their magazines, showing me they're clear, then lining them up on a table.

  I stare at the guns.

  "Before I hand one to you, here're the three basic gun handling rules: Act as if every gun is always loaded. Keep the muzzle pointed away from people. Never place your finger on the trigger. When I hand you a gun the slide'll be open. Even though I've checked to make sure it's clear, you do the same, okay?"

  I nod.

  He picks up a pistol. "This is a Glock, a gun a lot of people like. It's ergonomic and very well built." He offers it to me. "Go ahead, take it."

  I reach forward tentatively, then pull back.

  "Hey, don't pussy out on me, Kay."

  I turn on him. "Excuse me?"

  "Just goading you." He laughs. "Dakota's orders, a method we use when a lady acts squeamish. Please don't take it personal."

  His eyes are so sad and his smile so sweet I accept his explanation. Five minutes later I'm handling pistols the way I handle cameras in a photo store, picking them up, testing them for heft, looking for one with the right "feel." I like the Glock, the Beretta, the Sig-Sauer too. But when I pick up the Heckler & Koch, I know I'm handling something special.

  "H&K — yeah, she's a beauty." Mike leads me outside, shows me how to hold it in an isosceles stance.

  "Still feels good?"

  "I like it, Mike."

  "Then she's yours for the duration. Come back in, I'll show you how to clean her and take her apart. Since you already got safety shade wraps, I'll fix you up with ear protectors, holster and belt, then we'll head back to the house for chow."

  * * * * *

  I lie awake for an hour huddled in my sleeping bag atop my bunk, listening to the even breathing of the other women and the wind howling in the hills. I'm thinking about shooting and guns. There was something very aggressive in the isosceles stance, so different from the self-effacing posture I assume in aikido while awaiting attack. In a funny way it reminded me of the alert focused stance I take when working with my camera. Perhaps, I think, firing bullets won't be all that different from shooting film.

  Again I dream of the erotic gun, enter into the world engraved upon its steel, smell the bodies of the lovers, feel the eyes of the animals, their curiosity, the intensity of their gaze. Again the bee flies around me, dive-bombing and buzzing, whispering in my ear. But the buzzing is so harsh I cannot hear the whispered words.

  * * * * *

  We meet on the range promptly at seven a.m., ten women decked out in matching baseball caps and T-shirts bearing the Personal Security Ranch logo. Even at this hour the sunlight's fierce, forcing me to wear my strongest, darkest wraps. Dakota, hair in a ponytail, T-shirt blinding white, paces before us addressing us in staccato military style.

  "This," she soberly informs us, "is a cold range." The gracious hostess of the night before is now a drill sergeant barking out her rules. "That means if you're not about to shoot, you stay holstered and empty. Since we'll be working with deadly weapons, the first half hour this morning will be devoted to safety. The first rule here is very simple: Even though this range is cold, we act like every gun is always loaded."

  We learn how to load and unload, then how to "show clear." We learn other commands: "Rack the slide." "Cock and lock." We learn not to look at the target but at the "sight-picture." We learn how to stand, grip the gun and control the trigger.

  Shortly after eight I fire my first round. Dakota stands behind me, supervising, encouraging, explaining how I must squeeze the trigger slowly, so that when the gun fires I surprise myself.

  The
jolt is strong, but I hold steady, and at her command, fire again. By the time I empty my magazine of eight, I'm exhilarated by the sound, the smell and, most of all, the fact that I've not only broken through my phobia, but also shot a target at which she shows little scorn.

  Some of the women are experienced shooters. Three of us have never fired a gun before. But even the experienced members are attentive to what Dakota tells us next.

  "What we're doing has nothing to do with competition shooting. Those of you who've done that view it correctly as a sport. This is not a competitive shooting class. You get no points here for marksmanship. Defensive shooting is combat, stopping an assailant with lethal force. It's about tactics and speed, mind-set and focus, most of all about wanting to survive. Remember this: Your gun is not an article of sporting equipment. It's a weapon. Don't think of it any other way."

  She tells us we must learn to be instinctive shooters, that when we leave we must be able to draw from our holsters, then accurately fire three shots at ten yards, two to the chest target, one to the head target, all in a second and a half — an exercise she calls "the Mozambique."

  We learn that since defense tactics are counterintuitive, we must practice, practice, practice until the tactics become second nature.

  We learn about ammunition: that military ammo, called "hardball" or full metal jacket, is cheap and great for practice, but that it's no substitute for hollow point, which is more deadly and has far greater stopping power.

  "People always ask: 'Do I shoot to injure or shoot to kill?' The answer," Dakota says, "is neither one. You shoot to stop — which may mean killing. You don't think about that. Your object is to stop your attacker at any cost."

  Refreshing words in view of my confrontation with Julio Sanchez.

  We practice clearing jams when a shell fails to eject (a "stovepipe") or fails to feed. We learn that all guns jam, and that knowing how to clear a jam can make the difference between survival and death. Mike places dummy rounds in our magazines to provoke deliberate jams, which we must then clear speedily or hear Dakota's ominous refrain: "Sorry, you lose, girl — you're dead."