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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. Continued on page 98