Our instructors were two Afro-American males set up in Independence, Missouri, working out of a drafty little room frequently subjected to the noise of passing trains. The were quite knowledgeable about the subject, and obviously enjoyed their jobs. One was large and burley, keeping his concealed weapon on his hip until retiring to bed at night. The other was long and lankey, someone who would be a fun friend to hang with.
The class participants came from a wide range of backgrounds. One was East Indian, driving up in his deep-red 2009 Hummer, blasting rap music, then stepping out in his pricey wool overcoat. He had never before fired a gun. Sitting next to me was a small thin man, displaying an array of tattoos, who seemed to know much more about firearms than the instructors. He was quiet, but ready to offer information on any Glock, Ruger, or Smith & Weston. At Lorenzo's right was what appeared to be a native Missourian, sporting his baseball cap and a "Mizurah" accent. He proudly displayed his gun, purchased from a police officer, and attemped conversation a few times without much reciprocity. Sitting kitty-corner in front of us was what appeared to be a woman, clad in a red coat, and boasting poofy, longish hair. Much to our surprise, it was a male, who seemed to be friends with two other men in the class. One more student to mention: a elderly man who was always smiling at everyone with his nicely-whitened dentures, and his encouraging comments. He was overly friendly, to the annoyance of some, and the pleasure of others.
After a few hours of classroom instruction, we met up at the Crossfire Shooting Range, where we were tested on our ability to hit the image of a man's upper body a few yard away. I could EASILY have put 15 out of 20 shots in the black with both eyes shut. Lorenzo and I both put 20 out of 20 in the two center circles.
Back at the classroom we were subjected to a few hours of instruction by video from a Missouri lawyer regarding our rights and responsibilities. He wore a sparse comb-over, a vested suit (concealing his weapons), and a full beard. He is a collector of many types of weapons, including but not limited to knives and guns. A unique and eccentric man, he could have been picked up and dropped at the turn of the 19th to 20th century without missing a beat. His knowledge of law regarding conceal and carry was extensive, and his is the author of books on the subject.
After completing our course, we went to the sheriff's office to apply for a license. We were walking past some of the cells, and I thought about how boring it must be to have to sit in a small room all day with nothing to do. I asked, "Can they have a book?" and was relieved to hear they could. I would go positively insane sitting in a cell with not even a book. We were fingerprinted, then placed in front of the heights measurement wall for a mugshot. I looked over at Lorenzo, and said, "Should I smile?" After all, it WAS a mugshot.
Now we just have to wait about 45 days until we can receive our CCW license. Then we can join the army of those who walk the streets, shop at the mall, go to places of employment, and sit at Church with a 9mm strapped to our hips.
