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The Handgun

Drew Marshall

    During the nineteen eighties, I worked at a law firm in the Wall Street area of lower Manhattan.
    I also started doing cocaine. It was in abundance and always available. Friends and coworkers were always offering me some, as it was the drug of choice. I also bought a gram or two every week for myself.
    Scoring blow in Manhattan was never a problem. I lived in the borough of Queens. My apartment was located in a quiet, residential neighborhood.
    An acquaintance of mine happened to know someone who dealt coke in my area. Arrangements were made and one Friday after work, I stopped off to meet my new connection at his home. He lived on a clean, tree lined street, in a middle class neighborhood, similar to mine.
    George greeted me at the doorway of his two-story private house. He was friendly and welcomed me as if we were old friends. We were both in our late twenties. The two of us were about the same size and weight. He and I even looked alike. I sported a beard and he was clean shaven. We stopped off in the kitchen and he introduced me to his mother. He then escorted me up the stairs to the bedroom.
    I immediately noticed several handguns mounted on the wall. George walked over towards them and started bragging about his collection. He was quite proud of what he owned. I had little interest in guns. I simply wanted to obtain my nose candy and split.
    I knew I had better humor him about his weapons, before we could get down to business. I complemented him on one of the semiautomatics. George took it down and started rambling on about its history, and how he came to obtain it.
    He handed it to me. “Try it on for size.”
    The gun was sturdy, light weight, and fit my hand like a glove. I don’t know what possessed me, but with my hand on the trigger, I put the gun to his head. I jokingly said, “Give me your money!” I was playing at being a robber.
    He turned several shades past pale. His eyebrows flew up to the ceiling as his eyes bulged out of their sockets. His expression was one of extreme fear. The young man started stuttering, barely able to speak.
    “Please, take the gun away from my head. It’s loaded. The safety is off!
    It took several seconds for what he said to register, before I slowly complied with his plea.
    I pointed the gun towards the floor. With extreme caution, I took my finger off of the gun’s trigger. With both hands, I gently placed it onto the dresser.
    His expression evolved into anger. He threw a look of contempt at me for a few seconds and then opened the bottom dresser drawer. He took out a black shoebox & pulled out a small plastic bag. It contained the gram of powder that I had come here for.
    I gave him the one hundred dollars in cash and he handed me the bag. Transaction completed.
    “Tell Joey I’m not selling snow anymore.” He was still seething with resentment. I half expected him to grab the gun and put it to my head. Without another word between us, he quickly escorted me back down the stairs. His mother smiled at me as we walked past her. George slammed the door behind me.
    I was relieved to get the hell out of there. I suddenly became very angry as I headed home.
    He was an imbecile. Nobody gives a stranger a loaded gun with the safety off, and doesn’t say anything about it.
    Once home, I showered, changed my clothes and grabbed a quick bite. I tooted a few lines and headed back to Manhattan for my film class.
    The following weekend, I thought about the incident at George’s house.
    My direct experience with guns had been limited. While in grade school, I spent three summers at a sleep away camp in Pennsylvania. Pistol practice and rifelry were scheduled activities, several times a week.
    Doctors still made house calls during my teenage years. Doctor Venner was a real character. He was six feet four, broad shouldered and weighed in at two hundred and fifty pounds. Even with his thick rimmed, Buddy Holly type glasses, he cast an intimidating presence.
    He packed a semi-automatic in a shoulder holster. His mantra was; “I’ll treat anyone, anywhere, anytime. But I don’t travel anywhere without my gun.”
    No one enjoys being sick, but I looked forward to his visits. He would remove the magazine clip from the gun along with the bullets. He let me handle them while explaining various facts about guns and ammo.
    Like most boys growing up, we had romantic and masculine notions about firearms. We played cops and robbers, cowboys, and then spies.
    We were James Bond. 007 had a license to kill.

    I would never forget the look on that kid’s face. I had the power of life and death, over another human being.
     In a split second, someone who existed could abruptly and violently, cease to be alive.
    The incident at George’s home could have turned out much differently. I could have blown a hole in his ceiling, or his head. He could have wound up a vegetable, or dead. I could be writing this from prison. I was now imagining the worst case scenario, as I sat alone in my apartment.
    The police arrive and start questioning me.

    “How long did you know the deceased?”
     “We just met.”
    “What was the purpose of your visit?”
    “To buy cocaine.”
    I plead involuntary manslaughter at the trial. I am convicted of murder.
    I never looked at guns in the same way after that experience.

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