Johnny Get Your Gun

8

Johnny McGuire awoke early in the morning. As soon as the full light of day began to penetrate the thicket in which he had taken refuge he opened his eyes, remembered, and then lay still.

For a few moments he felt terribly alone and had an almost overwhelming urge to rush to the wonderful shelter of his mother. Then an even more powerful voice told him that to do that might mean disaster.

He relived again the nightmare that had happened to him on that dark, silent street. Once more he saw the four older boys approaching him, felt the weight of their size, and the pressure of their number. He had never intended to fire the gun, he had not done it on purpose, but it still had been his hand that had pulled the trigger.

Like a hypnotic dream in which every normal motion is slowed to an agonizing pace that will not be hurried, he felt again the unexpected hands gripping his arms from behind. He felt himself trying to lunge forward, but his movements were torturously slowed. Then his hands tightened into fists in order to fight back, that involuntary motion had pulled the trigger.

He heard again the terrible blast of sound and felt once more the mighty kick of the gun in his hand. He saw once more the boy standing before him, then watched as he folded his arms across his abdomen and began to sink to the ground.

He lived again the paralyzing terror of that moment: the shocked seconds of confusion; the sight of the boy he had shot crumbling to the ground and he was aware of nothing else until he knew that he was running away. It seemed as though he were running through water up to his waist; he was not wet, but some unseen force was holding him back so that he could not move except very, very slowly. It was a battle each time he lifted a knee high enough to run….

Abruptly he came back to the present as he realized that he could not remain where he was much longer undiscovered. People were not up yet, but they would be soon and he would have to make good his escape. He wanted desperately to go home, and he thought about it carefully. He had seen the police cars in front of Billy Hotchkiss’s house and he knew that the goddamn cops were after him. They would also know who had shot the black boy in the street. Of course it was not as serious as it would have been if he had been white, but they would be mad at him just the same. They might even arrest him for it.

Just like the shows on TV, they would wait for him at his home. That meant he could not go there now, he would have to wait until evening and after they had quit for the day. Conscience prodded him with the bitter fact that his mother would be terribly worried, he had never stayed away from home overnight before. He drew in a quick sob of breath when he thought of her, he wanted her so much! Bitterly he forced himself to realize that he couldn’t see her for several more hours, it was part of the price he had to pay for shooting into Billy Hotchkiss’s home.

He had to have somewhere to go, somewhere to stay that the goddamn cops couldn’t find him. They would know him right away by his jacket because everyone did, they kidded him about it at school. It was warm on him now, but because it was his only jacket, and the only one he could remember ever having had, he loved it. Then he reasoned it out. Carefully he took it off, folded it inside out so that the red color would not show, and tucked it into the base of the thickest bush. Tomorrow, he resolved, he would come and get it back.

He wondered if he should leave the gun too. If he did, he would be free of it at last and the danger it would represent if he were caught. Then he remembered the black faces he had seen only dimly in the dark, one of them was sick now, but the other three would be out for his blood. If one of them found him, and he didn’t have his gun, he might be killed.

As best he could he considered the matter, weighing one danger against the other. He could not decide until he remembered the evening when he had sat beside his strong and wise father and had first been shown the gun and had it explained to him. “A gun is a good thing,” his father had said. “Because sometime you might have to protect yourself or your ma. Maybe sometime two or three of ’em will come at you and you won’t have a chance. Then the gun makes you the boss; when they see a gun they stop real quick. When you’ve got a gun, nobody’s gonna give you no trouble.”

The decision to keep the gun made for him, he wondered now where he could go. He had all day to spend, but if he just walked the streets it would be too dangerous. He had no relatives he could go to, no friend he could trust. Then, out of the clear blue, a sudden and wonderful idea rushed upon him, an idea charged with electric possibilities. He could go to the baseball game!

He could go and see the Angels themselves, the real players, the big league stars in action. It almost took his breath away, but it was possible. He had more than fifteen dollars in his pockets and it was his own money. He had no idea where Anaheim was, but thousands of people went there every day to the great stadium.

Then, as though his own dedicated guardian angel had spoken to him, he remembered that he did have a friend after all, a great and powerful friend! With shaking fingers he pulled out his little plastic wallet and extracted a worn piece of paper. He had carried it so much, and had read it so many times, it barely held together at the folds. With great care he opened it and read once more the words he could easily have repeated from memory:

Dear Johnny:

Thank you for your nice letter. I’m glad you want to become a catcher for the Angels, the best thing to do is to drink your milk and practice every day that you can.

I’m very flattered that you want to meet me so much. The next time that you are at the ball park, bring this letter to the clubhouse door and show it to the guard. He will let me know and I’ll be glad to come out and shake hands with you.

Your friend,

Tom Satriano

Now he knew what to do. Somehow, some way, he must get to Anaheim. With the precious letter he would get to meet Tom Satriano himself. He might have all of his equipment on, his shin guards, the big pad across his chest, and the mask behind which he watched every motion of the game. And he would see Tom Satriano play! He would see him crouching behind the plate, signaling the pitcher what to throw, running back to catch foul balls, and cutting down base stealers with the whiplike power of his arm.

Another wonderful thought tumbled into his mind: when he met Tom Satriano he could tell him what had happened and Tom would help him and tell him what to do. He would know, because he was the catcher and ran the whole baseball team on the field. Tom Satriano was a big leaguer, a very important man, so important that he probably knew Gene Autry himself.

Now time was beginning to press him, if anyone saw him leaving his hiding place, it could be the end of everything right there. He would have to go now, while he still had a chance. He listened, then peeked through and looked, but he saw or heard nothing which threatened danger. Pushing the shoe box ahead of him he crawled from underneath the bushes, brushed himself off, and looked for a path that would take him back to the streets of Pasadena.

Ten minutes later the attendant at an all-night filling station was mildly surprised to see a small boy with a shoe box under his arm come trudging up the driveway. “You’re up awful early, aren’t you?” he asked, amused at the boy’s slightly bedraggled appearance.

Johnny knew one reason why a boy might be up at that hour and he was quick to use it. “I’ve got a paper route,” he explained. “May I use the bathroom?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

In the momentary shelter of the rest room Johnny relieved himself and then washed carefully. When he picked up his shoe box again, the gun inside slid over and made a noise. Although the door could open and someone could come in at any moment, Johnny knew that something would have to be done. From the waste container he retrieved a number of crumpled paper towels. With these he padded the inside of the box and then laid his gun on top. He replaced the lid and shook the box experimentally; there was no heavy clunk to give him away.

Satisfied with his work, he returned to the service area and asked, “Can you tell me which way is Anaheim?” Then, quickly, he added, “My dad is going to take me there today.”

“Anaheim?” the attendant said. “I bet I know where you’re going. You’re going to Disneyland, aren’t you.”

Johnny nodded. “Yes, but we aren’t sure how to get there.”

The man stepped inside the office and returned with a map. “Here, let me show you.” He spread it out across his knee. “Here’s Anaheim, down off the Santa Ana Freeway. Do you live near here?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Good, then the best way will be for your father to take the Pasadena Freeway to the interchange and then go through the slot until the Santa Ana branches off to the right. Can you remember all that?”

Johnny took the map. “I can remember, but sometimes our car doesn’t run so good. Can we take the bus?”

“Yes, if you want to. Catch a number fifty-eight on Fair Oaks Avenue into Los Angeles. You can change there for a bus direct to Disneyland; it’ll drop you off right at the main gate.”

“Is that close to where the Angels play?”

The attendant nodded. “Sure, maybe a mile.”

“Thanks a lot, mister.”

“You’re welcome, son.”

Johnny’s spirits rose rapidly as he turned back in the direction from which he had come. He knew now where Anaheim was and how to get there. He also had learned that every other human hand was not against him, he had talked with the man at the filling station and had had no trouble at all. His confidence grew despite the realization that his mother would be wondering where he was and that his father, if he found out, would be awful mad about his taking the gun.

In the bright new daylight the thing that had happened the night before seemed to be far away. The darkness and the fears that it had harbored were gone; the streets did not look the same and traffic was beginning to flow in a normal manner. For a slim moment he considered the possibility of trying to go home, then a host of considerations swept the thought away. The cops might be there, but what was much more important, he would lose his one chance to go to the ball game. In his whole life he might never have another.

When he reached Orange Grove Avenue no bus was in sight. With his shoe box still tucked carefully under his arm he stood at the bus stop for a minute or two, then decided it would be better if he could keep moving. He was too close to the place where he had fired the gun the night before; there was too great a risk that someone might spot him standing there.

Checking again that no bus was visible for several blocks, he began to walk southward in the general direction of Los Angeles. That helped him to feel much better, he was already on his way to Anaheim and every step that he took put the nightmare of the previous evening farther behind him. A few other people were beginning to appear now, in a little while he would no longer look so alone.

When he reached the next corner he walked to the curb and again looked up the street behind him for any sign of an approaching bus. At his feet there was a loose pile of throwaway newspapers, put there for some deliveryman to pick up.

Again there was no sign of a bus, but coming down the street less than a block away a police car was approaching, cruising slowly close to the curb. On the instant Johnny was flooded with a new and fearful sense of disaster, his confidence vanished and fear gripped him. He knew with frightening immediacy that he was still a hunted creature, but it was too late to run and hide.

Swiftly he bent over and picked up as many of the papers as he could with one hand. He threw them over his arm to conceal the shoe box, then squatted down and put another bunch on top. As he finished, the police car pulled up beside him and stopped.

There were two uniformed men in it; the one closest to him leaned out the window and said, “Morning, son, how are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mike.”

“How long have you been delivering papers, Mike?”

“About two months.”

“Have you seen another boy around here this morning, one with a worn-out red jacket?”

Johnny shook his head. “I just got here,” he replied.

“OK, thanks a lot.” The policeman waved a hand as the car moved away and continued down the street.

For the next ten minutes Johnny played his role as a newsboy, fearful only that the rightful holder of the job would arrive and challenge him. He walked rapidly down Orange Grove Avenue tossing a paper on the sidewalk or lawn before each house. As he did so he kept a careful watch back down the street for any sign of a bus that would rescue him from his precarious situation. He had almost run out of papers when he saw at last the square, flat face of the big vehicle two and a half blocks away. Breaking into a run, he dropped his remaining papers and reached the bus stop just in time to signal it to stop.

Having ridden a bus once before on his own, he climbed up into the vehicle with assurance and offered the driver fifty cents.

“Los Angeles?” the man asked.

Johnny nodded and received a penny in change. He walked back and sat down full of a wonderful sense of escape. He had never enjoyed a bus ride so much; he was unhappy only when it stopped for other passengers and delayed his progress. He wished also that he could talk to his mother and tell her that he was all right. If she had been with him, then he would have felt infinitely better.

Maggie McGuire sat before her kitchen table, staring unseeing through the wall that faced her. She was alone. Mike had gone to work. He had wanted to stay home and wait for news of his son, but with the expensive citation hanging over his head he had reluctantly decided that he could not afford even a momentary loss of income. Maggie had promised to call him the moment there was any word.

The considerations of money and the hard realities of day-to-day living washed over her like breakers running up a sandy beach and then retreating back into the anonymous vastness from which they had come. Her baby was gone, and that single fact dominated her. She understood that he had killed another boy and that he would have to go to prison, but if she could only hold him for just one long, all-engulfing minute in her arms, then, she felt, she would be able to face up to almost anything.

He had been with her here less than twenty-four hours ago, and she had given him little or no attention. If she had just taken the time to look at him she might have seen the bulge of the fatal gun in his pocket or stuck in his clothing, but she hadn’t bothered. Now, in the bitterness of her loss, she told herself that she was an unfit mother who had not taken proper care of the precious life entrusted to her. She put her head down and cried a little more. It was then that the phone rang.

Anxiously, fearfully, she picked it up.

“Mrs. McGuire?”

“Yes, yes!”

A worn-out, clacky voice began to recite a sales pitch about carpet and upholstery cleaning. The crews would be in the neighborhood and a free estimate…

“No!” she cried, and hung up the accursed instrument. Helplessly she beat her hands against the top of the table.

The phone rang again. “Yes?” she snapped.

A thin, small voice said, “Hello, Mommy.”

She grasped the phone as though she could make the voice at the other end come closer. “Johnny?” she asked.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m all right,” her son said.

Her voice went dry and she could barely speak. “Where are you?” she asked.

“Right here in the phone booth, Mommy.” A slight whimpering sound came over the wire. “Mommy, my radio’s broken.”

“I know, Johnny, that’s all right. Don’t worry, you’ll get a new one.”

“Is Daddy mad?”

“No, Daddy isn’t mad. He knows that you didn’t break it.” A sense of reality began to come back to her and she tried to think. “Tell me where you are, dear, and I’ll come.” She knew when she spoke those words that she had no means of transportation, but she would even have called a taxi-anything-to reach him.

“Mommy, I think I’m in trouble.” The voice was a little softer, a thread of guilt running through the words.

“Johnny, I don’t care! Tell me where you are, Mommy wants you!”

“Mommy, I took Daddy’s gun and I shot a nigger boy with it.”

Maggie could stand no more, raw emotion shattered the little composure she had and caution deserted her.

“Johnny, I don’t care if you did kill that boy, come home-Daddy will take care of you!”

There was a fearful silence.

“Mommy,” came a very small voice, “did you say I killed him?”

“Johnny…” she began when another voice cut into the line. “Your three minutes are up. Please signal when you are finished.”

After that she heard nothing for three or four seconds, then the mechanical sound of the handset on the other end being replaced. The connection was broken.

She wiped her eyes with the backs of her trembling hands, picked up the card which was next to the telephone and dialed.

When she had an answer she said, “Mr. Tibbs, please,” and waited.