Right, so they fired 50 bullets into this unarmed novio and his two friends.
Novio and friends brushed against someone’s shin with their car, and hit another car, causing minor damage. They had just left a club, and it was after midnight.
When I lived in town, I went out every night. That’s right, every night. Not in a very decadent way. Nothing starts until nearly midnight. Like many people, I would work most of the evening, and then stop in somewhere. I would leave again after the first set, so I could be at the office early the next morning.
I have had people put dents in my car three times, and brush against my shin as they left their parking places at least once. Not all of these events took place in the best of neighborhoods.
None of these dent-leavers had insurance, and some did not have drivers’ licenses. At least one was a crackhead. All of them were very exasperating. Words were exchanged. Cars roared off in the night – and from the look of the vehicles, back to the projects.
I may just be lucky not to have suffered a scratch myself, but doubt it. If I had pulled a pistol in any of these incidents – on a cobblestone street, in the tropical night – do you honestly think I would have improved matters?
There are certain occasions upon which I actually do feel I need a pistol, namely, certain kinds of department meetings. Our campus, however, is a firearms free zone. Some faculty act so crazy to each other that the man across the hall from me – actually a very relaxed person, but also an old Southern boy who knows how to shoot – laughs and says, “Damn! If they are going to go on like this, I wonder if I should bring my .38!”
I have a costume I wear to these meetings. It involves some old cowboy boots, the most macho of whatever jeans I happen to own at the moment, and a jacket – actually, a Donna Karan suit jacket in summer, and a trenchcoat in winter. Completing the ensemble is a cowboy hat. One day the hat will be made of black felt in winter, and of straw in summer, but now it is made of brown suede. This outfit is a fetish. Being a fetish, it works every time.
The hat, I only wear from the house to my office. There, I toss it onto the desk with careless expertise. I pick up my imaginary pistol and place it in my waistband, underneath my coat. Thus armed, I stride out to give some non-random marauders a piece of my mind.