"BB"
Directions: Read the story. Then answer the questions below.
When I was about 12-years-old, my older brother, James, smuggled
a BB gun into the house.
I’m not quite sure where he got it. This was in 1938, during the Great Depression. He must have bartered for it with one of his friends.
Having any form of weaponry in our home was strictly taboo.
James brought me to his room and took the BB gun out of a shoebox in his closet. I was immediately enamored. He let me touch it and walk with it around the room. I fingered the trigger.
“Can I shoot it, Jamesie?” I asked, hopefully.
“No way,” James said, taking it from me and putting it back into its covert spot.
I forgot about it for a while, but one day, when no one was home, I went into James' closet and took it out.
For some unknown reason, I went to the front window of the second floor in our row house. I cracked the window open. I pointed the gun outside and shot. I quickly shut the window and peaked outside.
In a matter of seconds, old Mr. Schlosberg came out of his grocery store. He looked back at his store window. He looked up the street. He looked down the street. Then he looked straight across to our house. He could tell from the trajectory just where that shot had come from. He knew someone in our house was the culprit.
I ran back to James' room to return the gun and then sat downstairs, waiting nervously for someone to get home. Thankfully, Jamesie made it home before Mother or Father.
As he stepped through the door, I could hear old Mr. Schlosberg call his name.
“James, James,” he called. “Come here, son.”
I crept to look out the door and saw Mr. Schlosberg pointing feverishly at our house (up to the second floor window!) and then at his shop window. James ran back across the street and into the living room. I had retreated into the kitchen.
“Alma!” he screamed. “Get out here! You cracked Mr. Schlosberg’s window with my BB gun!”
“Oh, please, Jamesie,” I begged. “Don’t let him tell Mother. She will whip my bottom real good!”
Jamesie sighed. He wiped my tears and went back across the street to Mr. Schlosberg’s.
I don’t know what James said to that man, but there was never a mention of the incident again. I didn't know how I got out of it, but I got out of it, and that was all that mattered to me then. I was too self-absorbed to realize what a great brother I had.
Years later, I found out Jamesie had used the money he got from his newspaper route to pay for Mr. Schlosberg’s cracked window. He only got one cent for every paper he delivered. He managed to pay the debt off just before he went off to fight in World War II.
Since that day, I have never touched a gun. A BB gun, a water gun, a real gun, or any other type.
I’m not quite sure where he got it. This was in 1938, during the Great Depression. He must have bartered for it with one of his friends.
Having any form of weaponry in our home was strictly taboo.
James brought me to his room and took the BB gun out of a shoebox in his closet. I was immediately enamored. He let me touch it and walk with it around the room. I fingered the trigger.
“Can I shoot it, Jamesie?” I asked, hopefully.
“No way,” James said, taking it from me and putting it back into its covert spot.
I forgot about it for a while, but one day, when no one was home, I went into James' closet and took it out.
For some unknown reason, I went to the front window of the second floor in our row house. I cracked the window open. I pointed the gun outside and shot. I quickly shut the window and peaked outside.
In a matter of seconds, old Mr. Schlosberg came out of his grocery store. He looked back at his store window. He looked up the street. He looked down the street. Then he looked straight across to our house. He could tell from the trajectory just where that shot had come from. He knew someone in our house was the culprit.
I ran back to James' room to return the gun and then sat downstairs, waiting nervously for someone to get home. Thankfully, Jamesie made it home before Mother or Father.
As he stepped through the door, I could hear old Mr. Schlosberg call his name.
“James, James,” he called. “Come here, son.”
I crept to look out the door and saw Mr. Schlosberg pointing feverishly at our house (up to the second floor window!) and then at his shop window. James ran back across the street and into the living room. I had retreated into the kitchen.
“Alma!” he screamed. “Get out here! You cracked Mr. Schlosberg’s window with my BB gun!”
“Oh, please, Jamesie,” I begged. “Don’t let him tell Mother. She will whip my bottom real good!”
Jamesie sighed. He wiped my tears and went back across the street to Mr. Schlosberg’s.
I don’t know what James said to that man, but there was never a mention of the incident again. I didn't know how I got out of it, but I got out of it, and that was all that mattered to me then. I was too self-absorbed to realize what a great brother I had.
Years later, I found out Jamesie had used the money he got from his newspaper route to pay for Mr. Schlosberg’s cracked window. He only got one cent for every paper he delivered. He managed to pay the debt off just before he went off to fight in World War II.
Since that day, I have never touched a gun. A BB gun, a water gun, a real gun, or any other type.