In 1980 my firend Carmine slid a .38 across the table of John’s Italian Restaurant. I looked at it for a few seconds, the asked, “What’s this?”
“A gun,” said the Sicilian plumber.
“For what?”
“For protection. This is the East Village.”
Junkies ruled the streets, thieves plagued the unknowing, and project thugs roamed the street for prey.
“Fuck protection. I can take care of myself.” I pushed the weapon back to Carmine. “Plus the only way I would take it would be if you gave me a thousand bullets. Like you said, “This is the East Village.”
The Upper Lower East Side was dangerous to a fault, but I was in my prime.
25, 165, and angry.
“Your choice, but never say I didn’t give you an edge.”
“Not to worry, I’ll never say that.”
I shunned guns.
In New York or Paris, or Hamburg or Pattaya, yet my sense of invincibility doesn’t prevent white mother-fucekrs from try9ing to teach everyone how dangerous they can be with an AR-15 in their hands.
Last month several masked gunmen entered the Kentucky Statehouse armed to the teeth.
The fascist police waved them around the gun detectors. They stood at the top of the stairs. If I had a hammer in my hand, I would have whacked them in the heads, but I’m in New York City. We don’t act like we are trying to reinstate slavery, because we well know that the banks have made us all slaves and I need Uncle Carmine to come out of the grave to re-armed me for the coming battle, although this next time I might need more than a thousand rounds.
