The Old Neighborhood Read Free

concrete.
    They sprinted across Ashland Ave. and through the Jewel parking lot. Ryan and I crossed Ashland. A rusty pickup truck honked its horn as we cut in front of it. My heart banged in my ears. Across the half-empty parking lot, the Assyrian disappeared through the front door of the pharmacy, with Lil Pat and Mickey close behind. The laughter rose to high hilarity. As we approached the pharmacy, I heard the screams from inside, but no gun shot. We stood there at the open door as the neon-green light from the sign in the window poured out and stained the sidewalk at our feet. We peered in at the long rows of shelving units that ran back to the counter; there wasn’t a soul in sight, just the screams and a deep, leaden crunching. Then, the sound dampened. The laughter plummeted to a bubbling, demonic gurgle. There was a blur of motion. Ryan grabbed my arm and pulled me toward another doorway. We crammed in and pressed our backs to the glass door. Lil Pat emerged from the drug store with Mickey right behind him. Their laughter fizzled into a popping giggle. Their hands were as red as butchers’ to the forearms, and there was a bulge in Lil Pat’s blood-speckled waistband. As they jogged out, Lil Pat’s shirt rose up above his belt, and I saw the wet wooden pistol grip. They glanced up and down Clark Street, wild-eyed, and then hung a left and disappeared into the darkness of the side street.
    The screaming continued inside. It was a woman’s voice, and it was the only voice that could be heard. There was a quick panting between each scream. I listened as I hid there with Ryan beside me. Our chests heaved. The patter of Lil Pat and Mickey’s steps dissipated. We entered the drug store wordless. The woman screamed like she was falling into an endless, black abyss, it rang in my ears. Trembling, we walked towards it. I saw the dark-red puddle on the floor slowly expanding like a shadow across the green and grey tiles. I walked closer to the puddle’s edge where I saw the young man motionless—eyes still open. A deep crack above his eye ran up his forehead and into his hair. Thick blood oozed slowly from the wound, wetting his frizzy black hair. His bottom jaw hung open and was cocked to the side of his narrow, dark face like it had been dislodged from its hinge. The woman screamed deeper into the abyss, crumpled on the ground with the phone trembling in her hand. Her torso shook terribly. The puddle enveloped her legs and soaked the underside of her brown nylons. I looked at them in silent mourning—for the young man and something that I hadn’t words for. We slipped out of the store as others poured in through the doorway.
    We walked towards home in the quiet—our heads hung. The weight of it all around us. The air was thick, and the carnival roared on in the distance. The sound of the children’s joyous screams rose and fell, but I had no urge to return. We walked down Clark to Hollywood Ave., where the yellow sign of the corner store glowed stale and flickered. We stood there under it a while.
    â€œYou think dey’re gonna get caught up?” I asked.
    â€œNaw, there ain’t nobody gonna rat dem out.”
    â€œShit… He was dead wadn’t he.”
    Ryan didn’t answer. We walked down and crossed Ashland with the sirens floating in the air. Ryan went his way to the north, and I went home. I went up to my room and sat on the bed a while in the dark as the orange-yellow of the streetlight seeped in through the window. I thought about God. I thought about heaven and if Lil Pat could ever go there now. I wondered if I could go there now that I knew what I knew and was never gonna tell. I held my crucifix and prayed to Jesus that he wasn’t dead. After the others had gone to sleep, I went downstairs to the TV room and watched the reports of the murder.
    And that was the birth of Pistol Pat.
    â€¢
    WHEN I WAS A LITTLE KID, all I ever wanted to be was