guns are not the problem part three.

that night-
i think i was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a tall glass of water-
at my sisters old 32street apartment, the lights off, wondering what this was-this dull thing my life had been.
when there's a knock on the door, loud.
Holy shit. i jump up and answer it.
i open the door and some maniac in a suit twenty years old sticks a .38 in my gut.
i need beer and cigarets. it's Hugh's brother-
with a gun in my stomach
how about a glass of water?
fuck that- laughing, he lowers the gun.
you coming in, or you going to shoot me from the hall?, i say, pretending i'm the thin man, or the continental op, while Johnny pretends he's going to kill me because i used to test peoples preferences, Coke or Pepsi, with his girl friend, when i was 16 and she was so beautiful and 19.
she used to drive me home thru the dark frosty forests away from malls, our fingers sticky with sugar- yellow shirts, straight hair, god she was gorgeous, and i was a freaking string bean-with tooth picks stuck out for arms, my pecker a small spot of fuzz. . .


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