The Pusher, The Kids... and the Gun

The Pusher, the Kids and the Gun

There seems to be drug trafficking even in the quietest of areas. Sadly, too many people seek an escape from their lives or their reality by way of substance abuse which often becomes the tool of the user’s own destruction.

On a cool autumn afternoon in my old neighborhood, I found that a teenage supplier was giving away samples, stickers that could be licked to produce a high, to elementary school age kids. My guess was that the pusher was trying to either make them habitual or addicted users.

In either case, I was irate. Being somewhat irrational when angry, I proceeded to find the teenage pusher and show him the error of his ways in ways that are unnecessary to describe here. After all, there may be small children and nuns reading this book. Anyway, I was confident, after our little talk, that the pusher would never set foot in the neighborhood again, for fear of being permanently maimed.

Fast forward a few weeks. My friend and real estate associate, Joe Bartera, and I stopped, on our way to an appointment, at a Seven Eleven for a couple of sodas. We were driving a Dodge Monaco, which was a former state police car that I had purchased at an auction in Harrisburg. The car had a roll cage and was made of real steel rather than the plastic that automobiles seem to be made with today. Of course, it got the gas mileage of a tractor trailer with a full load, a dirty filter, and dragging two deer, but I digress.

Stepping out of the car, I had neglected to tell Joe that the passenger side lock didn’t work, and then, remembering, I called out, “Don’t lock your door.”

“Too late,” he said as the door slammed. “It’s locked and besides, my mother always told me to lock the car, even in nice safe neighborhoods.”

When we were leaving the Seven Eleven minutes later, sodas in hand, a full size sedan pulled up at a “T” behind my car and the drug pushing teenager that I had a chat with some time before popped out of the car, followed, more laboriously, by a large contingent of enormous gentlemen.

“That’s him,” he said, pointing at me.

“Crap,” I said, realizing they probably weren’t stopping by to congratulate me on my good works on behalf of society. Leaping into the driver’s side of the car, I started the engine and attempted to slam the door.

Joe dropped the soda and ran for the car only to discover that the lock didn’t open. Frantically, he began yelling obscenities that had never before crossed his Catholic lips, while I, managing to pop the lock and put the car into drive, waited for him to leap in. It was the sort of stunt you would probably never be able to pull off twice.

The goon who was closest to my door, as I floored the accelerator going forward away from the car blocking my path behind, had on what appeared to be brass knuckles. “Wow, I didn’t think those things really existed,” I vividly recall thinking as the car spun to the left toward the exit to the mini mart where another goon ran in front of the car and took aim with a gun. “A gun?” I thought. “Oh crap.”

More obscenities streamed from the passenger side of my car as this enormous man fired a single shot right between us just before I hit him with the car.

“Are you okay?” I shouted at Joe as we peeled out of the parking lot at high speed. When he didn’t respond, I glanced over at him and saw that he was white as a ghost, which was highly unusual for this typically tan Italian, but he didn’t appear to be spraying blood in any particular direction. That was good. I was fairly certain blood wouldn’t come out of the seat coverings.

Rather than take him to the hospital which I should have done, I took him to a nearby home of a friend, by which time, Joe had gone into shock. Once he had recovered, we debated calling the police and eventually decided against it, although we had been violently attacked, it was also true that I hit the man, almost certainly causing at least some bodily damage. And that did not even take into consideration the fact that I had roughed up the fellow who was supplying drugs to the local youth.

I also rationalized that the odds were good that the teenager didn’t actually know who I was or exactly where I lived, so if I were to report the crime and identify myself, the entire cartel could be after me.

Prior to that incident, the likelihood that a teenager pushing drugs would have a supply chain that would protect him had never occurred to me. After that night, thankfully, I was never bothered by them again, although I often looked over my shoulders for probably three or four years.

My mistake, looking back, was that I hadn’t handled the original situation correctly. I should have reported it to the authorities and I certainly should have talked to the kid’s parents and tried to help them without taking action into my own hands. I guess I read too many Shadow Novels and Batman Comics as a kid. Of course, I still love Batman. Who doesn’t?

Incidentally, Joe didn’t get in a car with me for nearly ten years after that episode. On the bright side, he’s still working with me today.

LIFE LESSON: Always think before you act. Your actions may have unintended consequences for you and for those around you.

Please check out my book "Life Lessons from the Back Seat of My Car" as a possible gift this holiday season!