LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 7.15 37
the cost of the guns involved, certainly a few
people out here have excess cash.
"A lot of these guys, they're history bufs.
And they're engineers too, aerospace engi-
neers. And they love the mechanics of these
weapons," Sumner says. "You take something
that can shoot between 300 to 600 rounds in
a minute, and like a Minigun goes to 3,000
(rounds) and up. Te mechanics that go into
making 3,000 rounds go out in a minute is
crazy."
If you lack the cash to buy your own per-
sonal Minigun, don't despair. At Knob Creek,
you can hold one for just a dollar. I'm not
tempted. I can appreciate their engineering
in an abstract way. And I can understand the
fascination with machine-gun history. But
I have no desire to touch one and even less
desire to shoot one. Not even a little. Not a
smidgen. Not at all.
I can see Duane Schmidt's lips move,
but the big orange earmufs I'm wearing
mufe his voice. I slide of the ear protec-
tion, and he repeats the question. "Are you
going to try it?" the Madison, Indiana, man
asks. "You should try it." "It" is a machine
gun. Schmidt is at Openrange Sports in
Crestwood with eight other men celebrating
his 28-year-old son Kyle's last Saturday as a
single man.
Barry Laws, who created Openrange eight
years ago, is trying to make gun-buying as
middle-of-the-road as golf. "Tis could be a
Nike store," he says, indicating the decor. But
the only design feature the bachelor party is
interested in is the assortment of machine
guns hanging from a wall. Tey choose three
and head into the pistol range.
Te groom-to-be picks up a squat black
Uzi, positions his feet, rests his cheek against
the stock and lines up his sights. Te range
echoes with the Uzi's clatter: Tuhtuhtuhtuh-
tuhtuhtuhtuhtuh! Kyle Schmidt stops, smiles
toward the other partiers like he's just in-
vented sex, and lifts the weapon again to fre
another volley. Tuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuh!
Schmidt stands about six feet tall, yet even
at his size, the Uzi shoves his right shoulder
back like a drunk spoiling for a fstfght.
After the Uzi, he picks up a SCAR (Special
Operations Forces Combat Assault Rife),
and does it again. Tis gun is louder, more
jarring. Schmidt beams as he puts down the
gun and returns to his buddies. Later, he'll
try the most powerful of the three guns, a
KRISS Vector, which shoots 1,200 rounds
of .45-caliber ammunition per minute. Tis
gun has a recoil mitigation system, yet even it
pushes him back.
Each of the men walks away from shoot-
ing with a devilish grin. During a lull in the
noise, Duane Schmidt again urges me to give
the guns a try. But I've been obsessing about
a nine-year-old girl who last year accidentally
killed an Arizona range instructor who was
teaching her how to fre an Uzi. Any compari-
son between me and a small child is ridiculous,
yet this still scares me. And then I wonder if I
am really going to let this chance go. So when
everyone else has fred the Uzi and the SCAR,
I step forward.
A range instructor shows me how to stand
and hold the weapon. I take a shot or two, just
to get a feel for it. Ten the instructor reaches
across the gun and sets it on full auto. I lean
forward to counter the coming recoil, line
up the sights on the target, and take a deep
breath. It's like your frst roller coaster ride, the
train of cars click-click-clicking upward. Your
brain rushes around like a beetle in a teacup,
trying to grasp what's coming so it can prepare
you. But it has no script it can even borrow
from. I press the trigger.
Everything happens at once, thought con-
densing to a pinpoint. Bullets whiz from the
barrel too fast to see. I ease up on the trigger.
Te room opens outward. My legs turn to
rubber. I am as wide-awake as I've ever been
and jangling like a disordered tuning fork.
I put down the gun. Later, I try the SCAR.
Although many of the guys assured me this
gun was easier to control, I fnd it more dif-
cult. Plus, my adrenaline stores are spent. It's
actually anti-climatic. I feel tired. Even sleepy.
I don't even consider trying the KRISS Vector.
Mostly, I just want to leave these folks to their
party. I need a nap.
I also still need to buy a handgun for
this story. I've looked at guns at several
stores and actually picked the one I want: a
.357-magnum Smith & Wesson Model 60 Pro
Series. It's a revolver, a necessity for me since I
never could master racking a semi-automatic's
slide. I like the way the Smith & Wesson's
trigger resists just enough but still allows me
to pull it without jerking the gun of center.
And best of all, the gun is relatively thin, so it
rests sweetly in my small hands. It's also $800.
And that's the end of discussion. No way am I
spending $800 on something I am not really
certain I want, even if I sort of want it, if you
can follow the logic.
When I leave the bachelor party, I intend
to drive to the Fairgrounds for the gun show
and buy something used. Tat way I can pass
through the gun show loophole and skip the
FBI background check that licensed frearms
dealers are required to administer. Licensed
sellers must administer a background ques-
tionnaire asking about such things as criminal
history and drug use. Are you a fugitive, an
addict, a felon? Has a court found you mental-
ly ill? Were you dishonorably discharged from
the military? All of those things will stop a gun
sale. So will a misdemeanor domestic-violence
conviction or being under a restraining order
for harassing, stalking or threatening. Te deal-
er relays your information to the FBI, and fve
or so minutes later, there's a decision. But with
an unlicensed dealer, none of that matters. Te
only thing standing between a stalker and a
gun is the dealer's conscience.
But on my way to the gun show, I decide
to take a side trip to Jack Tilford's Discount
Guns of Preston Highway and across from
the Sam's Club on Fern Valley Road. Behind
the counter, a small fufy brown dog named
Tifany bounces on her hind feet, her mouth
open in a smile, begging for attention. Marty
Tilford, Jack's wife, scoops up Tifany, and goes
in the back to get Jack. Tilford's is among the
oldest gun shops in town. Jack and his dad,
Paul, sort of stumbled into the gun business in
the late 1970s.
Until Tilford turned 18, he even didn't
know his father owned a gun. His dad brought
out his Smith & Wesson revolver only after a
series of break-ins in their neighborhood near
Jeferson Mall. He'd kept it hidden in plain
sight, just inside a closet on the wall above the
door. Tilford is still amazed that neither he
nor his sisters ever saw it there, across from the
shelves where the family stored photo albums.
After that, he and his father started shooting
together. Ten they began collecting. "Women
collect jewelry; men collect guns," Tilford says.
He leans on the counter of his small shop in a
light-blue shirt, his head resting on his palm.
Any gray in the 56-year-old's curly blond hair
and mustache blends too well to notice.
After a few years of collecting, father and
son decided to get rid of several weapons and
placed an ad in a local bargain paper. Tey
had so much merchandise, the paper insisted
they buy a display ad. And that was the start.
Jack opened the family's frst store in 1985 on
Shepherdsville Road; 20 years ago they moved
to this location.
I ease up on the trigger. My
legs turn to rubber. I am
as wide-awake as I've ever
been and jangling like a
disordered tuning fork.
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