Impatient and unable to wait any longer, he had fired the gun. He had pointed it toward the window, had held it in his two hands, and had pulled the trigger. It had shocked him with a deafening blast of sound amplified even more by the quiet of early evening. For the moment he was frozen, then, yielding to panic, he began to run. At the edge of the little park he paused only long enough to replace the gun in its paper sack, then he emerged onto the deserted sidewalk and began to hurry, as fast as he dared, toward the main artery where he had bought his dinner. He kept looking about him for some place to hide; he knew that after what he had done they would come looking for him in a hurry and he did not want to be caught.
In three minutes he reached the corner and saw, coming toward him, a city bus. One quick glance showed him a bus stop sign only a few feet away. He ran to it and waited, not caring where the bus was going so long as it would take him away from where he was.
With a snort of compressed air the big vehicle pulled up and the door opened. Johnny got on, clutching his paper bag in his left hand, while he fished with his right in his pocket for the fare. He found a quarter and brought it out. The driver accepted it as he swung away from the curb, paying no further attention to the passenger he had just taken on. The bus was more than half empty, but for maximum safety Johnny chose a seat well by himself and close enough to the front so that he could see where he was going. If the route took him close to his home, then he could find sanctuary there and his father would protect him; if it didn’t then he would have to get off at some point where they wouldn’t look for him.
He could not tell which direction the bus was going, only that it was not taking him home. Then, as he sat, a faint acrid odor began to reach him. In its paper bag the gun was giving off a thin, harsh smell.
To stop it he pushed the paper bag and the thing it held inside the protection of his jacket. As soon as he had done so he realized that he might have accidentally moved the trigger; fright seized him for a moment, then his wits came back and he reasoned that if he sat very still the danger would be much less.
Almost frozen, he did not dare to move until the bus had made several stops. After the first two no more people had gotten on, each time after that when it had pulled up to the curb someone had gotten off. When there were only three riders left besides himself he knew that they must be nearing the end of the line. He had to risk movement then; very cautiously he got up and went to the rear door. The driver went past two more corners before he stopped and let him off. A few seconds later he was alone while the taillights of the vehicle receded down the unfamiliar street.
As soon as it was far enough away Johnny very carefully brought out the package and held it in his hand. It was heavy now and he wondered if he dared to throw it away. He didn’t want it any more and it was dangerous to carry. Then he thought of his father and the fury that would surely come over him if his gun were not returned in good condition. His father’s anger was something he could not face; whatever happened, he would have to keep the gun.
Instinct told him that he could not stand alone on the corner too long, someone would be sure to see him and ask him what he was doing there. He wanted very much to go home, but he had no idea where he was. He thought of trying to telephone his mother, but he was in a residential sector of what was clearly a poorer class neighborhood. After what he had done he could not simply go to a house and report himself lost, he would have to try something else.
He began to walk. The best thing he could do, he decided, would be to find some place where he could hide for the night; it was early summer and with his jacket on it would not be too cold. In the morning he would walk, until he found a telephone and then call his mother. She would help him.
Then behind him he heard the squeal of brakes and the sudden stopping of a car. He turned in alarm, fearful of the goddamned cops, but there were no cops there. Instead he saw a very old car which had been modified so that it was very low in front, high in the rear, and decorated with racing stripes down its side. Someone got out and called to him, “Hey, kid!”
His first impulse was to run, then he saw that the person coming toward him was only a few years older than himself. He knew that if he tried to run he could easily be caught, so he did the only possible thing and stood his ground. But he was in no mood to take chances: perhaps this person wanted to help him, perhaps not. Carefully he slid his right hand inside the top of the paper bag.
The adolescent from the car came closer and then Johnny saw that he was dark-skinned. He expected no friendship or help from such as him; he took a step or two backwards and fitted his fingers around the weapon which was now his best protection.
“Watcha got in the bag, kid, huh?” the Negro boy asked.
“My lunch,” Johnny answered. It was the only thing he ever carried in such a bag and the only answer he could think to give.
The older boy from the car turned and called back, “Hey, get this-he says it’s his lunch in the bag.” He bent over in imagined silent mirth.
Johnny stepped backward once more, far enough to give himself a little distance, not so far as to invite the Negro youth to follow. Then he looked and saw three more figures getting out of the car. One of them was taller, but that was all that he could tell in the darkness.
“I’m hungry,” the teen-ager in front of him said. “How about givin’ me somethin’ to eat, huh. Got any fried chicken?”
“It’s my lunch,” Johnny retorted.
“You’re out kinda late ain’t cha, kid?” Johnny recognized the change of subject as an attack from a new direction.
“I’m goin’ home,” he answered. “My dad’s gonna meet me.” He hoped that would frighten them off-if they knew his father it would.
The gambit failed. He looked up to find that he was staring at four dark Negro faces, faces that looked at him as though he were a cornered animal they could toy with for their own amusement. He would have been terrified except for one thing-the gun, the wonderful protector he held hidden in his right hand. He now saw his father’s wisdom in owning it and always keeping it close, ready for immediate use. The gun might be the only thing that would save him now, a Tennessee boy, from the clear danger he saw in the four black faces.
The tall one, who seemed a little older, spoke up. “Maybe you’re lost, how about that?”
“I come here all the time,” Johnny flared. He did not dare to show weakness.
“Ya do, huh?” that first one said. “Then what’s the name o’ this street? Tell us, go ahead.”
Johnny didn’t know, he hadn’t looked at the sign on the corner. “You leave me alone!” he demanded, putting all the thin authority he could into his voice.
“Whatcha say that for, huh? You don’t like us, maybe?”
“You’re niggers,” Johnny responded.
One of the two remaining faces that had stayed silent until now reacted sharply. “That ain’t a word we like,” he said.
The tall one spoke again. “Kid, we don’t like to be called that. You oughta know. You from the South?”
“Tennessee.” Johnny hadn’t meant to reply, but the answer was so easy he gave it.
“Well, that ain’t too bad a place, but it ain’t too good neither. You talk like maybe you come from Mississippi.”