My homie Nick came through with weed to smoke every day. Nick is chubby with chubby features and covered in faded basement tattoos. He lives in a Yankees cap and all of his white tees touch his knees. He’s the first kid I met way back when we moved down to Curley Street.
I whipped him in a game of one-on-one over at Ellwood Park when we were twelve and he said, “You can beat me in basketball, but I bet you can’t beat me fighting!” We fought, both claimed victory, laughed it off, and have been tight ever since.
Weeks after Bip died, Nick would ask me about college and I’d just ignore him. I had thought about all of the schools I’d gotten into but I didn’t care about any of it. I had to shake Bip’s murder.
Every night, I’d hear Bip scream, “Deeeeeeeeeee, where’s my phone!” I’d pop up, and then check every room, flipping sofa cushions and rambling through desk drawers like a maniac until I realized that Bip was not there and he wasn’t coming back. Then I’d bolt downstairs, peek into the alleyway, unlock and relock every door and window before checking on his .357 under my couch, and making sure my .45 under my pillow was loaded.
Bip taught me how to shoot when I was thirteen. Nick tagged along too. We’d line cans up inside of the empty pavilion in the middle of Ellwood Park after hours and buck shots at them one by one.
“I’m only teaching you how to shoot for protection. Remember, any coward can use a gun,” said Bip, mangling logos dead in the center of every can. Nick tried to hold the gun sideways like the guys in hood movies. He eyed a Sprite can while extending the pistol—POP! The bang slung Nick to the ground with the gun flying in the opposite direction. He received more damage than the can he was aiming at.
“I’m good, Yo!” screamed Nick, popping up, rubbing his arms, pulling his dick and making sure that the rest of his body parts were still attached.
“That’s a lesson!” Bip laughed. “Never hold a gun like a dumb nigga in a hood movie! This ain’t Hollywood, this Holly-hood! Dee, you up next!”
I picked up the gun that embarrassed Nick and squeezed the handle with both hands, tight enough to feel my veins pop. It warmed my skin as remnants of smoke from Nick’s attempt swam past my target. The soda can was perfectly aligned with my front sight. I looked at Bip; he looked at the can and then gave me a nod.
I delivered two shots, the first hitting the can, the second hitting where the can once stood. “Lemme try again, Yo!” Nick yelled, still massaging his arm. I passed him the pistol.
“Good job, boy! But remember, anyone can shoot a gun, real niggas use these,” Bip said, holding up his fists like trophies.
I wish that statement was true, but I was smart enough to know that it didn’t matter if you were considered to be “real” or “fake”—people didn’t fight with their hands anymore.