Free Gym Candy by Carl Deuker Page B

me were hundreds of tombstones. "This is a cemetery."
    He laughed. "Like I said—the perfect place to learn."
    It turned out he was right. There were no other cars, not one, so when I screwed up engaging the clutch and
the Jeep lurched forward and then died—which happened a lot—nobody was behind me to honk. The roads in the cemetery meandered, turning this way and that, so I was constantly shifting back and forth from second to third to second. All through it were rolling hills that gave me a chance to practice engaging the clutch and working the emergency brake. It took a while, but after an hour I had the knack. "You're pretty good," my dad said when he took the wheel back. "A couple more times and you'll be ready to go on the road."
    Then came the strange thing.
    Instead of going home, my dad drove over to I-5. "Where we going?" I said.
    "You'll see."
    We went north to Mountlake Terrace, and he wound his way through a bunch of back roads. "There," he said, pointing to a billboard. gun range—first timers free! the sign promised. He followed a gravel road about half a mile before pulling into the parking lot. "You're sixteen," he said. "Time you learned how to fire a gun."
    "A gun? What for?"
    "It's something every man should know how to do." We got out of the Jeep and walked across the parking lot. When my dad pushed open the door, little bells rang. A leathery-faced guy behind the counter was watching an NBA game on the television.
    "What can I do for you?" he said.
    "Is the first time really free?" my dad asked.
    He laughed. "Not exactly. It'll end up costing you ten bucks. What do you want to shoot?"
    "Not me. My son. I want him to learn how to shoot a gun."
    "What size?"
    "You got a little Colt he could use? A revolver?"
    "Sure. You want to show him, or do you want me to?"
    "I'd rather you did it," my dad said. "I'm no expert."
    "That'll cost a little more."
    "No problem."
    The leathery guy turned to me. "Okay, son, this way."
    We walked through a door to an indoor firing range. Before he did anything else, Bert Bronson—that was the name on the guy's shirt—gave me the rundown on gun safety. Then he nodded toward a target pinned up on the opposite wall and handed me a Colt revolver. "Let's see what kind of eye you got."
    The whole thing had seemed like a joke until Bert handed me the gun. When I felt the cold metal in my hand, everything changed. It was small, not much bigger than my hand; still, it was a real gun with real bullets. You hold a gun, and you've got life or death in your hand.
    I listened carefully as Bert gave me some tips on holding a gun and aiming it and on squeezing the trigger. "A little revolver like this doesn't have much recoil," he said, "but it takes some getting used to."
    He was right. At first, the gun kept jumping in my hand, making me fire way high. But after a while I was able to hit the target, if not the bull's-eye. "Good enough," Bert Bronson said. "This isn't exactly a marksman's gun."
    We walked back to the lobby area. The NBA game was over and my dad was sitting on a plastic chair, reading a newspaper. "That it?" he said.
    "Not a whole lot to a little Colt," Bert said. "Kind of a squirt gun with a jolt. Now if you'd like him to learn how to handle a rifle, that's different."
    "Another time," my dad said. He went to the counter and paid. "I appreciate your help."
    "Don't mention the gun range to your mom," he said as he backed the Jeep up and returned to the road. "She wouldn't understand."

5
    The great thing happened last.
    Just before Christmas my Grandpa Leo and Grandma Harriet came, as usual. When Grandpa Leo found out that I had my driver's license, he shook his head back and forth. For the first time ever, they didn't insist on taking me to McDonald's, and I sure didn't mention miniature golf. Mainly they stayed in the living room, talking with my mother. Christmas Day, all five of us went to church.
    My mom went to services every Sunday, but my dad