I was a coward once. A teenager with a fake ID I made myself, in a pony car I raced windows down that perfect Long Island summer night. The club had closed, I was dropping off Joey, and the breeze tugged my permed hair. Joey was a good guy. Everyone liked him and he was my friend, but you never really know people.

We wore parachute pants, and Rick Springfield pined away for Jessie’s Girl. It was a good night. We had some laughs, met a few girls, and I was still feeling all warm and rosy. Mostly over a petite brunette whose number I could feel crumpled in a zippered pocket.

I stopped. Joey said, “Later dude.” Then he was ripped from the car. It happened fast and it took a few heartbeats to register. We were joking, then he was gone.

I was out after him, but a guy with Grateful Dead hair stopped me. He reeked of onions and stuck what looked like a cannon in my face.

He growled, “Get the hell gone. Now.”

My friend was on his knees, arms locked behind him by a heavy-lifter who made Joey look like a toddler, and Joey croaked out, “Bill, just go.”

I was pushed back, the gun barrel deep in my cheek. “Listen to your friend Bill. We got business with him, don’t make it business with you.”

I did what I was told. Big pistol-guy slammed the door, and I raced away, overcompensating and shaking. Glancing back, they were laughing and dragging Joey away. But I was gone, still quaking, too scared to even piss my pants. I didn’t know what to do, so I drove. I left my friend and I ran away.

Another mile away

I felt like shit, but that was an improvement. It felt better to be angry than scared. Another block and I spun the car around.

I screamed back into that parking lot, Joey was a pile of twitching something, and they were still laughing as they walked away. They tried to run and jump away, but I was on them with a thud and shudder. The big silver gun went flying. I fishtailed and spun around.

I expected to get one of them. Both going over my fenders was a surprise.
I expected to get shot, but I got lucky, they were down, and I stopped where the big gun had landed.

They got up bleeding and cursing. But now I had a gun.

It was heavy, and they lurched at me.

I lined up the shot, they stopped, then I had a better idea.

I tossed the gun into the car and locked myself in. I looked at the apartment and started revving the engine like I was trying to rip it apart. I figured I could hit them again if I dropped it in gear.

Lights came on all over the apartment, angry people shouted out windows. Onion-man and heavy-lifter spit and yelled. I couldn’t hear them. I didn’t stop, and people came out of the apartment swinging bats and hockey sticks.

While everyone else yelled at me and smacked my car. Heavy-lifter and his pal limped away. When they drove off, I stopped. Then his neighbors saw Joey.

It was over just like that. I was behind the wheel, ignoring everyone, shaking and gasping and soaked in sweat. When they picked Joey up, I raced away again. I didn’t feel like a coward anymore, but I still didn’t know what to do. I ran two guys down with my car, maybe I was a criminal, but it felt better than having a gun in my face and running away.

I parked by a playground in Patchogue, sat my ass on a cold pier, and stared at the bay. Breathing salt air, my heart hammering my chest, still wondering why he didn’t shoot.

The sun came up

I waited for the police to come, but they didn’t, and I couldn’t understand why.

I should have been relieved, but what could I tell the cops? I ran two guys down. They’d say if I’d just kept running, it would have turned out just the same.

When I caught myself thinking it was only a matter of time before those guys came after me, and I had a gun, and I should figure out how to shoot it, eight fat bullets went down a sewer, and the cannon parts went to the bottom of the Long Island Sound. I’d figure out a better way.

There were police in the hospital ward when I visited Joey. I walked straight into them, sure this time I’d really piss myself, but all they wanted to do was check my bag. I brought Joey a bunch of Zagnut and Zero candy bars, because they were his favorite. And after the cops went through it, they tossed the bag to Joey a few bars short.

I glared, they laughed and said they’d give us some time.

Joey grinned and called me a crazy bastard. Then he unwrapped a Zagnut and said, sometimes it’s good to be a little fish.

Turns out the guys I hit didn’t make it far. Heavy-lifter banged his head too hard when I hit him and rolled his car a couple of miles away. When the police responded they were covered in coke, on parole, with other weapons and a lot more cocaine in the trunk.

They were in Jail, and the police attributed their injuries to the roll. Maybe Karma called. All I know is I got lucky again.

I think I did the right thing, but doing the right thing is complicated.
Since then I have been afraid, and even terrified, but I’ve never felt like a coward again.

I learned how to pound dents out of fenders and parts of my hood. A few months later, Joey got on a Greyhound bus, I left for Air Force Basic Training, and we never saw each other again.