Empty Metal |
"Give me your money or I'll blow your fucking head off!" I saw the guy, small, with a scraggly goatee, and wearing a filthy sweater. And then I saw his gun. I couldn't miss it. He had it pointed at my face. So close that it took a few seconds for my eyes to find it and focus. The silvery tip was just two inches from my nose. It smelled of old gunpowder that had never been properly scoured out. "Give me your money, man." I honestly didn't hear him. "What?" "The money. Give me your money or I'll kill you, man." I believed him. He was in my face, shaking and obviously willing to do it. Ready to pull the trigger and aerate my brain all over the side of my apartment building. I had just come out to run across the street for some milk and a pack of Parliaments for my lady. I'd tossed on my coat thinking that I'd be back in my easy chair before the next inning of the ballgame had started. And now, here I was, staring down the barrel of... it looked like a .22 to me. Why I even looked at the gun as anything other than the cause of my imminent death, I don't know. I know guns. I respect guns. I own guns. But I don't like to look down the barrel of them. Even when I've taken them apart for cleaning and know that they are unloaded and harmless. But I looked at this one. It was a piece of shit. Once, it had been a very nice Taurus, nine-shot, .22 caliber revolver, Brazilian. Not a bad target gun, but of minimal protection value. Unless you've got it two inches from somebody's nose, like now. I'm sure that all of this was taking place just about simultaneously; him demanding my milk and cigarette money, me saying, "Oh shit" to myself, and me also noting, in the fading twilight, the genealogy of this gun. The guy was about 25, looked 15, dressed as he was in the fashionable ragamuffin costume of the pseudo-Deadheads who spend their days lounging in the parks dealing drugs and dodging undercover cops. I must have outweighed him by 60 pounds. He was wide-eyed and sweating. He looked as scared as I did, I'm sure. He held the gun in his hand very tightly, like he half expected it to wrestle itself free and bite him. The gun, the .22, was filthy. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years. As it shook in his hands, it waved in the glow from the streetlight and I could see the burnt powder caked around the tip of the barrel and on the outside of the cylinder assembly. I could also see that each of the chambers was corroded and gunked up. It was a real mess. Sometimes, in the face of all good sense and reason, you do something completely wrong and it turns out to be the best thing you could have done. Like that night. Common sense says, "Give this guy your wallet and pray that he doesn't kill you". But, instead I examined his gun for cleanliness. And it turned out that, in the process, I discovered that the gun was unloaded. I was so struck by its sorry state, that I realized I could see into each chamber and see nothing looking back. Empty metal. I could see that he didn't have the hammer cocked so that, even if there was a round in either the top or bottom chamber, he'd have to pull the trigger at least four times before he'd get around to a live one. And he was too wasted to present much of a threat otherwise. Christ, he couldn't have beat himself up, even if he'd had help. "Give me your money, man, or I'll shoot. I mean it." "No." "What? Are you crazy, man? I got a gun in your face." "Can I ask you a question?" "What?" "Why are you so afraid of me?" "Come on, man, give me your money and I'll let you go." "I've already told you, 'No' on that. Interesting isn't it? You have a gun and I don't. You could pull the trigger and I would die, right here, in front of you. Yet you seem to be more scared than me. Why do you think that is?" "I ain't scared of you, man" |
A Street Robbery Gone Horribly, Horribly Wrong |
First Published in 1997 in Nufoto Magazine |
"Sure you are. You're shaking. You're sweating like a pig and you can't even look me in the eye. You're so scared you're ready to wet yourself, aren't you?" "C'mon, man, give me some money." "Why? What do you want it for, beer, crack? To impress your friends in the park?" "Fuck you, man." "No thanks. I like to stick to my own species. Look, I'll tell you what. I want you to look at your gun. Go ahead, take a good look at it." Like the perfect fool that he was, he lowered the gun, turned it around in his hands and started to give it a cursory examination. He looked down the barrel. "What am I looking for?" He was fighting hard to focus his eyes. "Just look at it. It's filthy, like you. When was the last time you took a bath, Easter? Wait, I know, you shower every year on Jerry Garcia's birthday, whether you need it or not." "Can I have some money, man? "That's better. The answer is still 'no', but at least you're attitude is improving. How much do you have on you?" "What?", he said, still peering at his useless weapon. "Money. How much you got?" "I don't know. Some, I guess." "Well, check. Hey, forget the gun, Moonbeam. C'mon, look at me when I'm talking to you. Take out your little macramé wallet and let's see what's in it." He transferred the gun to his sweaty left hand and dug his right down into his pants and produced a ratty, black, plastic billfold. He started to check for cash. I could see the distinctive green of an American Express card peeking out of a side pocket. "Jesus, guy, you're slow. Here, gimme that.", I said. I snatched the wallet out of his hand. "Hey! Gimme back my wallet, man!" He raised the gun toward my head again. "Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses, Einstein. And get that stupid thing out of my face before I jam it down your scrawny throat." I quickly riffed through the wallet. "Shit, you've got over $200 here, and an Amex card. What's that for, those special evenings when you get tired of pretending you're broke and want to live it up? You fucking phonies really burn me. You play poor out here on the streets like it's some big game. Knowing that you've got this credit card tucked away and that if things get too uncomfortable you can always run home to Mommy and Daddy. You make me sick, you little shit. You come here to my neighborhood, deal your idiot drugs, puke your guts out on my doorstep, beg for spare change while you're carrying a full poke and then you've got the balls to try to rob me on my corner while I'm going to the store for milk and cigs. Shit. This is my neighborhood, you brainless twit. It is not a theme park for assholes." "Look, man, give me my wallet back. I'm sorry, man. I'm kinda wasted and... I just bought this gun from a guy last night, outside the free clinic. I mean... c'mon, give me my wallet back." "I'll tell you what. I like you. You're a fuck-up and a phony, but I like you. You won't remember any of this tomorrow, I'm sure but, let's make a deal." "A deal? What d'ya mean?" "Here's my proposition. I'm going to keep your money...." "What? No, man." "I'm going to keep your money. I'll leave you $20 and the credit card but, I'm keeping the rest." "What? You can't take my money." "Why not? You were going to take mine, weren't you? You stuck that sorry looking gun up my nose. You said you were going to kill me. No, I'm going to take your money and in return I will not kick the shit out of you and I will not shove that gun up your nose." "I'll call the cops." "The cops? Who are they going to believe, you? You don't look like you've been robbed. You've got your wallet with a twenty-dollar bill in it... and an American Express card, for God's sake. And you're carrying a gun. Oh, sure, they'll believe you over me - a guy from the neighborhood just walking down the street carrying a half-gallon of milk and a carton of cigarettes. I guess I really fit the profile, huh?" "Don't do this, man. It ain't right." "Oh, I think it's very right. Now, you have 3 seconds to start hauling your upper-middle class poser ass out of my sight or I will give you the whupping of what laughingly passes for your life. One more thing - if you're going to stick somebody up with a gun, BUY SOME BULLETS FIRST! Now... one... two...." I missed half an inning of the ballgame for this, but it was worth it. Yes, it was definitely worth it and my lady was pleased to get the extra cigs I bought her. |
