My Tucson Gun Story
The day began like any other in that I woke up at 5pm. Instead of falling asleep early after an all-nighter, as I’d hoped, I lay in bed in a zombie like state then slept for at least 11 hours…Still, I made the most of the remaining day. I wrote from 6:30 to 9:30 at Raging Sage, then switched over to Ike’s where I worked until 11. Tired, I fired up some poker tables, quickly stacking a dude with set over set, pocket aces versus jacks. After closing, I fired up more poker tables at home, losing back most of my earlier winnings on some bullshit.
The night’s antics began when R. and J. showed up at my house around 1am, already drunk. I met R while playing chess the year before. Thinking he was higher rated than me, he became angry when I beat him. R, a talented expert, plays an attacking brand of chess, marked by rook lifts and (often unnecessary) sacrifices, a style reflective of his personality. One of the first times we hung out, he tried to fight the bouncer at Maloney’s, when they wouldn’t let us in on account of being too drunk. But R is also outgoing, charismatic, intelligent, and if a bit postured, overall a cool dude.
So after dropping by unannounced, forties in tow, R proceeded to tell me about his recent stint in jail, on account of not having a license or registration. He was vague on exact details…
He also informed me of his new plan to enroll at Pima college, and his aspiration to eventually earn his PhD in Biomathematics, a field I’m unfamiliar with. “Man, you were right,” he told me, “I wanted to be a rebel, but I don’t want to miss the college experience.”
We set out to look for a house party that R promised me was just up the street off Mountain. You had to enter J’s car from the passenger side, the result, J told me, of a minor accident. The dent in the fairly new model Honda overlapped both the front and back driver-side doors, as though the car had been sideswiped. I quickly took the keys from him.
After stopping to pick up another forty and a twelve pack, we drove around the 9 square mile area between Mountain and Campbell, Grant and Ft Lowell. R borrowed my phone to make countless calls, referring to his 2 deactivated phones for the numbers. More specific directions never made it to us. Easily defeated, we returned to my house so they could both piss. R borrowed my phone for more calls, and we blasted hip hop and attempted to flow.
I got much better once I finished my forty. The highlight was my freestyle of the following: “I’m like a snake when I battle, before I strike, I rattle.” Or something close to that. As a side note, my epic high school flow (which a couple of you may remember) used to go like this: My rhymes are radical/ smooth and grammatical./ You know my flow/ I run lyrics systematical./ Some say I got an affliction./ You don’t like it? Suck my diction. (What was I thinking, not pursuing that rap career?…shiiit.)
By 4:30am, friends of R. began to call us back. Wasted on booze and Ecstasy, they hoped to get “hooked up” with rides. “We got a DD,” R said, referring to me. I’m not sure if he saw me glaring at him. By five, it was all coming together. The plan was to meet up with some guy who knew a dealer, and then to meet up with the other dude to score some yay. R: “This dude is bad ass. He was like, hey, is it cool if I bring these girls?” (Always, ALWAYS, the promise of girls!)
Not wanting to be part of sketchy coke deals at 5am, I tried to bow out gracefully. “I think I’m gonna call it a night,” etc. But it wasn’t that easy. R no longer had a license and J had drunk 2 forties already. After much persuasion, I agreed to take them to pick up the hook-up (who lived only a couple minutes away) and drive them back to my house, so the hook-up dude, Brian, could drive J’s car.
The streets were empty; the sun had not yet risen. I drove the four of us back to my house at a lawful speed, wanting to get this over with.
Brain: “Are you guys cops”
R: “Are we cops? No, we’re against the cops!”
Brian: “I know my shit, you gotta ask that…Do you guys work for cops?”
Know your shit? Come on, son, that’s been standard knowledge since Taxi Driver.
Brian (to me): “Hey, watch the speed limit, okay? I got a strap on me. I don’t know you guys.”
R: “You got a strap? Shit, I’m glad you got that!”
R: “Yeah, I just got out of jail. It’s fucked up they got TUSD police and Justice. I got pulled over on the way to court. I fucked up these to guys,” he lied.
Brian: “I got a court date coming up. Two counts of manslaughter. Two counts of attempted murder.”
I got a good look at him when we got back to my house. Brian wore a gold chain. His cell phone ring tone featured a woman’s voice, and though I didn’t catch the entire phrase, I picked out the word pimp. He was white, young looking. Studying him outside my house I could not tell the difference between him and the suburban kids I knew in high school who pretended to be him. Probably the difference was not great.
He seemed to take a lot offense when R asked him if he was under 18. (R told me later that he said he was exactly 18.) I did not ask to see the piece, which he assured us was loaded.
The night’s antics began when R. and J. showed up at my house around 1am, already drunk. I met R while playing chess the year before. Thinking he was higher rated than me, he became angry when I beat him. R, a talented expert, plays an attacking brand of chess, marked by rook lifts and (often unnecessary) sacrifices, a style reflective of his personality. One of the first times we hung out, he tried to fight the bouncer at Maloney’s, when they wouldn’t let us in on account of being too drunk. But R is also outgoing, charismatic, intelligent, and if a bit postured, overall a cool dude.
So after dropping by unannounced, forties in tow, R proceeded to tell me about his recent stint in jail, on account of not having a license or registration. He was vague on exact details…
He also informed me of his new plan to enroll at Pima college, and his aspiration to eventually earn his PhD in Biomathematics, a field I’m unfamiliar with. “Man, you were right,” he told me, “I wanted to be a rebel, but I don’t want to miss the college experience.”
We set out to look for a house party that R promised me was just up the street off Mountain. You had to enter J’s car from the passenger side, the result, J told me, of a minor accident. The dent in the fairly new model Honda overlapped both the front and back driver-side doors, as though the car had been sideswiped. I quickly took the keys from him.
After stopping to pick up another forty and a twelve pack, we drove around the 9 square mile area between Mountain and Campbell, Grant and Ft Lowell. R borrowed my phone to make countless calls, referring to his 2 deactivated phones for the numbers. More specific directions never made it to us. Easily defeated, we returned to my house so they could both piss. R borrowed my phone for more calls, and we blasted hip hop and attempted to flow.
I got much better once I finished my forty. The highlight was my freestyle of the following: “I’m like a snake when I battle, before I strike, I rattle.” Or something close to that. As a side note, my epic high school flow (which a couple of you may remember) used to go like this: My rhymes are radical/ smooth and grammatical./ You know my flow/ I run lyrics systematical./ Some say I got an affliction./ You don’t like it? Suck my diction. (What was I thinking, not pursuing that rap career?…shiiit.)
By 4:30am, friends of R. began to call us back. Wasted on booze and Ecstasy, they hoped to get “hooked up” with rides. “We got a DD,” R said, referring to me. I’m not sure if he saw me glaring at him. By five, it was all coming together. The plan was to meet up with some guy who knew a dealer, and then to meet up with the other dude to score some yay. R: “This dude is bad ass. He was like, hey, is it cool if I bring these girls?” (Always, ALWAYS, the promise of girls!)
Not wanting to be part of sketchy coke deals at 5am, I tried to bow out gracefully. “I think I’m gonna call it a night,” etc. But it wasn’t that easy. R no longer had a license and J had drunk 2 forties already. After much persuasion, I agreed to take them to pick up the hook-up (who lived only a couple minutes away) and drive them back to my house, so the hook-up dude, Brian, could drive J’s car.
The streets were empty; the sun had not yet risen. I drove the four of us back to my house at a lawful speed, wanting to get this over with.
Brain: “Are you guys cops”
R: “Are we cops? No, we’re against the cops!”
Brian: “I know my shit, you gotta ask that…Do you guys work for cops?”
Know your shit? Come on, son, that’s been standard knowledge since Taxi Driver.
Brian (to me): “Hey, watch the speed limit, okay? I got a strap on me. I don’t know you guys.”
R: “You got a strap? Shit, I’m glad you got that!”
R: “Yeah, I just got out of jail. It’s fucked up they got TUSD police and Justice. I got pulled over on the way to court. I fucked up these to guys,” he lied.
Brian: “I got a court date coming up. Two counts of manslaughter. Two counts of attempted murder.”
I got a good look at him when we got back to my house. Brian wore a gold chain. His cell phone ring tone featured a woman’s voice, and though I didn’t catch the entire phrase, I picked out the word pimp. He was white, young looking. Studying him outside my house I could not tell the difference between him and the suburban kids I knew in high school who pretended to be him. Probably the difference was not great.
He seemed to take a lot offense when R asked him if he was under 18. (R told me later that he said he was exactly 18.) I did not ask to see the piece, which he assured us was loaded.
posted by Ari at 10:24 PM
3 Comments:
You're probably right: the difference between that dipshit who claimed to have a piece and the suburban kids you knew probably wasn't that great. Because he probably wasn't packing -- he probably was pretending. I think that's what you were getting at, but I couldn't tell for sure.
On the other hand, if you did think he had a gun, and you still made that comment, you should probably stop associating with that kind of person before something bad happens. Having a good story to tell isn't worth it.
'Sides, it ain't a gun story if you ain't seen a gun.
I had no idea I'd be driving a kid who claimed to be packing--I'd have tossed those fools out on the street before getting involved with that.
Most of what he said was hard to swallow, but I couldn't say whether he was lying for sure. Even if it hurts the story, I'm happy the gun/imaginary gun remained out of sight.
Guns are +EV.
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