Tunnel-vision, everything in slow motion, life passes before my eyes, BANG! That’s the feeling I get when I fire a gun.
I visited a flea market downtown, right underneath the
My friend Jaime brought us to this house, a real crappy apartment. The guy who lived there had no teeth, greasy hair, a real junky-looking bitch.
The lowlife busts out a Glock .380 and a .38 caliber – I took the .380.
It was a nice shiny silver, six inches long, chrome plated. It held a nine-round clip.
Power! The steel felt cold to the touch. I loved cocking the chamber.
Cost me $175. No heads on it, said the lowlife. I stuck it in my waist, tightened my belt extra tight and made sure the safety on the gun was on. I also made sure there were no bullets in the chamber.
I felt scared. It was the first time I ever stuck a gun in my waist.
I fired it that day. From up on the bridge we could see a bunch of ducks and we waited till there were no cars and then we started unloading on those fucking ducks. It was Sunday, only a few people around.
My adrenaline was going. I was shaky. But I could feel the power. The kickback was strong. I held the gun with both hands. The bang was loud and echoed through the city.
It was a nice day to shoot a gun.
Crashing a Party in Providence
We’re sitting at a restaurant eating. I’m digging into some teriyaki glazed shish kebob.
Ring, ring.
Jim gives my buddy Mac a call. He’s a pint-sized
“Yo, these guys are messing with me. Help me,” he says.
Our friend had to be defended. We psyched each other up to fight and dropped our forks and slammed our beers and were out the door.
Me, Mac, Pipe, and Diesel jump in the car – a Ford Taurus “show” with dual exhaust and leather seats – and head over to the party in
My sister is hanging out, riding behind, wondering what is going to happen next. I tell her if the cops show up to meet me two blocks away.
The gang of us head up to the second floor of the party house. Knock, knock. As soon as the door opens a crack, Mac kicks the door and we all force our way in with our chins held high.
In the kitchen stands a table covered with empty liquor and beer bottles.
A big guy comes out from the back. He stands there like a gorilla holding his chest out.
“What’s the problem?” he says. “You’re friend’s acting like an idiot.”
“Well, five of you are beating on my friend,” says Diesel, who’s pretty big himself.
“So what are you gonna do about it?” big guy says.
The time for talking was over. Diesel’s got on those leather boxing gloves to protect his hands and punches him in the face twice. Big dude comes back like a wrestler and tackles Diesel. Both fly back, falling into a stove and knocking it over.
My friend Mac clocks another guy. I come up behind Mac and mash someone else. Pipe hits the next dude in front of him, a pretty boy dressed in a button down shirt with khakis and slicked back hair. We all just start swinging on people.
The kitchen table falls and the leftover beer from the bottles makes the floor slippery and as I’m punching I almost fall and bust my ass.
Tnis little guy comes out of nowhere and busts a bottle over Diesel’s skull. Then he runs back to the girls in the other room. Mac gets his shirt pulled over his head but I jump up and crack a bottle over that dude rattling his brain.
It was complete, utter mayhem.
Everybody starts picking up bottles and smashing them over people’s heads and faces, punching and kicking each other.
That went on for about 2 ½ minutes. A girl tries to bust a bottle over Mac’s head but it doesn’t break. So he punches her in the face.
Before it was over five of their guys are beat on the ground covered in blood and beer. Table’s overturned. Glass everywhere. Stove’s knocked down. Girls screaming, calling the police.
We clear out of the house, banged up only a little bit. Two or three cop cars are coming up the street. We jump in the Taurus and drive off.
We head over to Shanahan’s and drink Irish Car Bombs and some beer, trading war stories. Everybody had a different view of what happened to them.
But the moral of the story is don’t pick on the little guy ‘cause there’s always a bigger guy right behind him. And in our case, five crazy guys right behind – and someone’s always gonna get their ass whupped.
Oh, the good ol’ days.
Walking into
Baltimore Club
Walking into
Went upstairs. Linoleum floors, air stinking like beer and weed. People dancing. Lions cages suspended in the air. Girls. DJ on the stage. Plateaus of tables.
First hour just hanging out. Then a dude in the corner banging a girl on the first tier. Fucking her in front of 400 people. Lights flashing. An array of peoples’ faces and red, green, and blue lights.
She had no panties. He was going to town, banging the shit out of her. The people are just doing their own thing. People just watching the porn. People grinding on the floor.
In the bathroom. Eight stalls, fifteen urinals. Doing a bunch of drugs. Girls and guys fucking in the stalls. People ecstasied out. Handfuls of asses. Mouthfuls of tits. Grasping, squeezing hard as shit. Gimme that shit! Squeezing them nipples till they get hard. A guy was licking the makeup off a girl’s face.
Looking for a girl to hit on, drinking beers. Talked to a lonely chick. Bullshitting. Bought her a few drinks. Made out with her. Hard as a rock. Playing with my peter. Getting me horny as shit. I was ready to do it on the dance floor. The table. A hotel room.
II.
Left the club. Rocked like a motherfucker. With my friend Mike Buoy. Went to the parking garage. Elevator broke. Ran up to the third story. Hop on my bike. Suzuki GS 1100. Gunned it down the alleyway. 2nd gear, forty-fifty miles an hour down the parking ramp.
Slammed the brakes. Skidding 15-20 feet. Sideways. Let off the brakes, trying to grip concrete. Leaning. Foot peg scraping the concrete. Pillar in the way. Realization:Not gonna make it.
Hit the wall. Holding onto the handlebars. Pulled up the clutch, trying to ride out of it. Flew over the handlebars. Bounced off the wall. Shot me 10-12 feet. Had my helmet on. Flying like superman, stop, drop and roll on the concrete. Rolling like I’m on fire. Hit my elbows, triceps, scraped my back. Burnt a hole in my jeans at the knee. Sand and gravel in my cut. Felt like my arm was on fire. Road rash. My skin pulsing. Blood coming out.
Got up. Went over to motorcycle. Casings ripped off. Motormounts cracked. Scraped. Dented.
Bike weighs three hundred pounds. I’m all fucked up. Lifted it and dropped it five times. I’m all hurt, tired and weak from the fall and partying all night. Even when you’re sober it is hard to pick it up.
Start rolling bike down to the street. Bike won’t start right away. My buddy’s downstairs getting hussled by a homeless man. I didn’t have to tell him shit. “Holy shit!” He knew what happened. Homeless man wants a dollar. I’m like seventy miles from my house, all scraped up, and he wants a dollar.
III.
Finally after the flooded gas tank receded it starts. Buoy jumps on the back and we head out of
Gunned it. Just gonna ride till the engine blows. Got it up to 160 cause I wanted to get home.
Skin rippling on my neck. T-shirt snapping on my back. Leaning down. Buoy holding on for his life. Slow down! Fuck no! Blew by two cops standing still. Oh shit! No stopping, fast as I could. 18-wheelers on the road, pass ‘em by like they’re standing still.
Tires shaking back n’ forth. Feel the wind on my forehead coming through the helmet shield. Just blowing in and drying my eyes. We lost the cops. 18-wheelers blocking them. Next exit, cops coming up on the grass. They stop me.
You know why I stopped you? I was speeding. How fast were you going? About 80. Yeah right! You didn’t even register on the gun. He writes me a ticket for doing 95. 260 bucks.
Take off. Already got a ticket. So I speed home. Make it home, dead tired. Soon as I hit the pillow, I was out.
Sweet dreams thinking about them half-naked women fucking and dancing.
READER RESPONSE
Dear Stage and Screen
I just wanted to comment on JW's essay. It was pure and simple bragging rights. There was no real feeling in it except that he had done it and was proud. It is typical juvenile stuff. Now what he needs to do is the same story, but with some substance to it. He is a much better writer than that.
Love,
JW Chef's mother
