Street (Urban Fiction)

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

I was frozen in place. Shock held me still as embarrassment beat on me. He paced around for a couple of minutes before snapping his attention back to me.

"All you did was fuckin' prove me right. You happy?" He snapped.

I gulped. I could think of a hundred snarky responses, but I doubt I'd be able to get any of them out. The words would probably claw their way back inside of my mouth when they felt the anger radiating off of him.

"Ain't shit to say? Grab a damn gun, and I swear if you try anything stupid..." He let the sentence linger in the air.

Maybe he wanted me to come to my own conclusions. Maybe what he would do just simply couldn't be put into words. His tone painted a better picture than my imagination ever could.

I nodded. I took two slow steps back to the table and picked up a different gun. He never took his eyes off of me.

"That's a pistol. Guns are like phones. There are different brands, different versions. That right there is a Glock, 9mm to be exact. Most people love it. Why? It's cheap, lightweight, easy to conceal and carry, and whatever else. Not every damn handgun is a Glock, only dumb niggas think so. Dumb niggas man, be knowledgeable 'bout the weapon you using. Anyways, not every handgun is a Glock, but most niggas refer to them as Glocks." He clapped his hands together and looked up at the sky.

He was either asking God to strike him down because he didn't want to continue with the lesson, or he was thinking of more things to say. I'd put my money on the first one.

While he thought, I tried to commit what he just said to memory. Ok, the small looking gun was a Glock. A 9mm. Not all handguns are Glocks. Got it.

He walked over to me and my eyes widened when I saw him reaching. He grabbed the gun from me and pointed it to the ground. I closed my eyes and sighed in relief.

"Bullets don't got names, that's why you gotta be safe with guns. Every gun don't come with a safety. Point that shit at the ground if you got it out." I wasn't sure what he was doing. I saw watched him fiddle with the gun and then take the bottom part out. "This is the magazine. The mag is where you put the bullets."

He put the mag on the table. I took that as a signal to pick it up, so I did. I held the gun firmly in my small hands. I always imagined that the first time I held one, the first thing I'd notice would be the cold steel, but my hands were already numb from the weather. It was kind of long and rectangular shaped. There were numbers on the back side and a slot on the top. He handed me the gun.

"Put the mag back in," he instructed. "Hell naw." He sucked his teeth when I tried to push it in. "The side with the numbers goes to the back."

I pulled it out, turned it around, and pushed it back in. I looked up at him and waited for more instructions. Another cold wind whipped at my face and wrapped around me. My body shook with a shiver and my teeth chattered.

"The fuck you shiverin' for?" Trey asked like shivering was the last thing I should've been doing.

"It's cold," I pointed out. It was fifty-five degrees out. For some reason I've always loved the cold, but that didn't mean my body didn't react to it.

"Yo' dumbass like the cold, remember? Plus, it's swimming weather." I wouldn't have taken him seriously if he wasn't actually wearing a tank top, basketball shorts, and some slides. He didn't even have socks on with the slides. I could see the ash on his ankles and in between his toes, but I decided to keep it to myself and roll my eyes instead.

"Yeah? We ain't all from up north."

He didn't respond to that. Instead, he instructed me to take the mag back out. I tried to pull it out by the bottom, but my efforts were in vain. I sighed in frustration and tried to pull it out again. It didn't budge.