It starts with an arbitrary impulse: I'd like to shoot a gun. Luckily I live in New York City, and everything is for sale, even that. A Google search that reveals that a gun range exists in the middle of Chelsea. I make the appointment, and go.
The Westside Pistol and Rifle Range is in the basement of an unremarkable office building on 23rd street. Behind a metal door with its logo, the buzzing of fluorescent light is the soundtrack that accompanies my trek downstairs. The walls are pale green, perhaps once bright, now faded and sickly. Already, I can hear very muffled gunshots. I listen with mild apprehension.