Chapter 4, Extra 2
THAT ONE TIME I PUT MY GUN ON THE COUNTER AT SUBWAY
After I had finally hit puberty around 15, I used to ride my bike to the park where all the kids and gangs would hang out from the area.
This was like the hub for everything around. A lot of the kids at the park had guns and knives. If you weren’t affiliated with one gang or another, you were kind of outcasted, but that’s a story for another time.
Gang members would often drive around out of complete boredom and just look for opposing gang members, people wearing the wrong colors, or anyone who would look at them wrong.
There were times when they would drive by and just mean mug me, and I would just mean mug back because that’s really the mentality. At the school I was going to, you learned you can’t just let someone fuck with you. You have to show that you’re bold and stand up for yourself.
So when I’d mean mug them back, they would SLAM on the brakes and 4-5 people would pile out of the car and ask what I was staring at. Sometimes they had guns in hand and sometimes they didn’t. But there were a bunch of times where I fought 3 or more of them at a time but ended up getting my ass beat.
I’d go home, my grandma would see what happened, and she would want to call the police, but I’d tell her not to because that was even worse.
The reason I told you all of that was because one time, I went to a flea market with my uncle Benny (because he worked at them). I went to the knife and gun section of the flea market and the guy let me buy an air soft all black pistol that looked just as real as a normal pistol. I also bought a knife.
I bought it to keep the kids from jumping me and now I carried this gun with me everywhere I went. I remember it was BIG and Bulky. It almost fell out of my pants when I rode my bike to the park every day. I kept it in my waist band like I thought it was cool.
One time I rode my bike to Subway in South Chicago Heights. I got my sandwich made and when me and the sandwich-maker got to the register, I reached into my pockets to get my money. The gun’s thickness made my pants tighter and I couldn’t get my hands into the pockets. So with out even thinking about it, I took the gun off of my waist and I set it right on the counter to grab my money.
The guy behind the counters eyes lit up and were as wide open as they could possibly get. He put both of his hands up and looked like he was about to die or something.
I said “Oh shit, no, my bad! I couldn’t get my money out.” You could tell he was still in shock because he stood like 2 feet back from the counter as he handed me my change. I walked out calmly and hopped on my bike and left.
About 3 days later I had accidentally left my gun in the bathroom when I took a shower at night before I went to sleep. I woke up the next day and my uncle was sitting at the kitchen table with the gun in literally as many pieces as it could be in, he completely dis-assembled it piece by piece.
He was pissed at me and so was my grandma. They asked me where I got it and WHY I got it. Then they did the whole, “What happens when they realize it’s not real and the gangs kill your ass,” speech.
I didn’t get my first real gun till 20 – a Bryco 380 hammerless. I bought it from a 20 something year old black kid in a section 8 housing complex for $120. I bought it right out of his families living room closet where his family was watching TV, which included a 3-year-old little girl that watched us do the whole transaction. He pulled it out of white towel it was all wrapped up in. Him and I both stood in the closet door way, blocking the view using the door itself. I remember I kept looking around the door to see if they were looking and only the little girl was. This world is fucked up, you just don’t realize it till you reach the level to understand why.