Cold Bullets and a Bloody Yarmulke

By: Ari Neville, Block: A, English 11

        Blue smoky tendrils lazily embrace me in a warm nicotine bear hug. Each drag takes me to a place far away from my current situation. Nothing else exists but me and my brain ramblings, how peaceful. Time momentarily ceases to exist as my body miraculously travels to a tropical Island. Palm trees sway gracefully in a warm tropic sun, on the Island. Crystal perfect blue waves pound endlessly on fluffy cloud white sand, the perfect soundtrack to a life on paradise. A subtle salty scent wafts into my nose as I listen to the noise and clamor of the nearby forest, and I couldn’t be happier. Sadly, my cigarette breathes its dying breath. As soon as it appears, my tropic nirvana vanishes into the ether. Clear as day, pure bliss morphed into total depression. Swiftly I flick the cigarette onto the cold Detroit pavement with disgust. It’s over, time to get on with my day. Every ounce of my being desperately doesn’t want to do what I’m about to do. But one simply doesn’t cross the big guy, unless one desires death. My destiny will be sealed in a matter of minutes, and there will be no detours. No cop outs. There is all but one option: too succeed or die trying.

        As a kid, nothing would make me happier than going to the movies. The sights, sounds, and smells of my childhood movie theater made everyday life livable. Those two hours I’d get to spend in the movie house would magically erase the sufferings of poverty. One the silver screen I could escape to a world of two bit gangsters and bumbling gagmen. After the movies I’d go back home, back to reality. It was the dirty thirties and my family was dirt poor. Often days would pass in which hunger followed constantly. But not just any hunger, a hunger that gnawed at your soul and consumed every waking hour. Hunger would serve as a painful reminder of my family’s permanent place below the poverty line, always constant always devastating. Inevitably, the movies I so fanatically watched made a real connection to my present life. What separated my Dad from the gangsters I watched at the movie theater? My Dad and the actors in the movies were both white, American, English speaking, and hard working to an extent. One thing did separate my dad and the characters in the films I enjoyed. The characters in the gangster films were flamboyant, rude, and most importantly, they broke the law. It was this breaking of the law which led to riches and acclaim, which fascinated me so deeply. In my mind I made the correlation that my father’s lack of law breaking, was the reason why my sister went to bed crying at night from hunger, and why our clothes were never new. From that day onward, consciously a decision was made, that never again would the law limit my money making possibilities. But how does one become a gangster? Plus, all the mobsters from the movies were either Italian or European, how was a Jew supposed to become a successful? Thankfully, the answers to these questions were extremely simple. Daily I would hang out at my neighborhoods pool hall, delivering messages and goods for dollars; to me I was on the fast line to wealth and easy living. As the years passed, my crimes became more dangerous with even bigger payoffs. Pretty soon my income was far exceeding my fathers, a fact he knew very well from all my bragging. Even with all my money, my father didn’t respect me. Papa was old school; he didn’t believe there was any shame in working long hours for practically nothing. Father didn’t like that he raised a Jew gangster. Someone who owned cars and nice things. But what isn’t kosher about living in wealth and luxury? I digress. Soon the thirties were over, and with hard work and dedication, I was an official participant in organized Jewish crime. Sadly, all good things come to an end at some point. The bloody and treacherous lining of my crime fuelled dream soon burst, after a full half decade of service. The evil drug called heroin caused the decay of my vital crime career. All it took was two shots, and that was it. Pretty soon I was stealing mob funds, and crossing anyone who stood in my way for dope money. The bosses soon found out about my behavior. Via blood bath, and the ruin of human bodies, I will have to prove my loyalty to my fellow mobsters. In all fairness, it’s either kill my fellow man, or be savagely butchered by the bosses right here and now. So I’ll follow orders. I’m going to rob a bank, and kill anyone who tries to stop me. Doing this will truly show my loyalty to my gang.

        There is no indecision in my mind, cigarette tossed, and my gun cocked and loaded, it’s either now or never. Bile slowly crawls up into my esophagus, as I make sure to keep my walking stride slow and controlled, so as not to draw suspicion as each step draws me closer to the bank. Is this really happening? Pretty soon the bank will be a stone’s throw away. Can I really do this? Do I have it in me to kill a man? What could happen if I freeze in the middle of the robbery? But this must be done, if I don’t rob this bank and kill all witnesses, my dreams of being accepted back into the good graces of the Jewish mob will be unrealized. The dough in this bank alone could easily be enough to pay back all the money stolen by me for heroin. Besides, why die in the name of dope? Still have time to be a good Jew. I can go to synagogue and atone for my sins and gain my father’s respect. Hell, I’ll even give up bacon. Damn, it’s too late now. I’ve reached the bank. Is it necessary to pull this off? Damn. Ok. The only thing left to do is to put on my mask and enter the bank, that’s all you’ve got to do. Prickly yet soft, my mask (a toque with two eye holes) engulfs my surroundings in darkness. Now it’s really serious business, there’s no turning back. Like a blind man clings to his cane, my hands instantly grasped the cold metallic door handle of the bank. Quickly my hand reaches into the deep dark crevices of the innards of my pants, and pulls out a revolver. One more step to go. With gusto and excitement the door shoves in as if by magic. Bullets ooze out of my revolver slowly and melodically announcing my arrival, while knocking out a deadly beat. It feels as if the heat of a thousand fires is surging through my body. With equal zeal I kick through the second door. Officially I’ve entered the bank. Halfway through the final step. Surveying the scene, it’s clear that my initial burst of gunfire has alerted all bank patrons. Everyone is on the ground. Two pistols previously in the possession of two guards slide uneasily to my feet. Oh no. Oh my god. What do I do? What comes next? I’ve spent most of my bullets, and everyone is expecting me to do something. Ah. Calm down. Say something, something intelligent.

“This is a robbery. If everyone cooperates, nobody is going to get hurt.”  

        Stupid. Quick, fire off a couple rounds. Act as if you know what you’re doing. Show these pompous Detroit fat cats that you aren’t some ignorant kike. This is it. Go up to the bank teller; tell her to fill up your bag with cold hard cash. Wait! Sweet Jesus. What’s that pain? Look down. Good god, don’t throw up. Hot, cherry red liquid is pouring generously from a bullet wound in your chest. You’ve got to keep moving toward the teller. You can still do this. Gosh, each step feels so laborious, like my feet are covered in cement. This pain is almost unbearable. Like a thousand needles are being jabbed into my body, one by one very slowly and methodically. Everyone is just staring at me. Did I do something to them? Why is this happening?  Why is that man with the Tommy gun walking so fast toward me? He doesn’t look to happy. You better run. Go, run boy run. Everything is so blurry. Take out your gun stupid. If you aim the gun at the Tommy gun guy, he’ll go away. You did good boy.

“Stop! You don’t have to do this”

“Put that Tommy gun away”

“Don’t make me do this.”

“Double dare you, you cop bastard”

Ratatat…