Jersey (K story)
Jun. 5th, 2016 08:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/1r8NbEZ:
bomberqueen17:
I mentioned my long-held theorem that you cannot make fun of New Jersey if you’ve never lived there.
“Oh,” K said, “I’ve lived there.” (We were on the phone. I’d just figured out how to use the Bluetooth thing in the new car.)
“You have to live there a little while to understand the aesthetic,” I said.
“I was there ten months,” he said. “Granted, I was only six at the time. Hackensack. But I remember it really well.”
“Do you,” I said. “Really? Six?”
“It’s pretty goddamn vivid,” he said. “My dad shot an intruder in our house. Twice, in the face. Bam-bam. Killed him instantly.”
“Oh,” I said. A lot of K stories leave you not quite knowing what to say.
“They arrested my dad,” he said. “Because of a lot of things, some of which I only found out a lot later. But partly because most scared homeowners don’t shoot people like that. A neat double-tap, precision-aimed? The cops figured he hadda be Somebody. And then, we were straight from Georgia, and the intruder was black. A Southern guy shoots a black dude? Like that?”
“Hm,” I said, still trying to figure out what one says.
“What it really came down to, though, I only found out way later, was that the guy downstairs was a soldier for the Gotti family, and they figured my dad was probably involved too. They had to let him go, as of course there wasn’t any proof of anything. But I only found out really recently… he was.”
K laughs. “So yeah, I remember Jersey really well.”
K is a Pennsic/elsewhere friend who tells a lot of stories. Talking to him a lot has been getting me through this exhausting autumn. I’m kind of doing a series.
bomberqueen17:
I mentioned my long-held theorem that you cannot make fun of New Jersey if you’ve never lived there.
“Oh,” K said, “I’ve lived there.” (We were on the phone. I’d just figured out how to use the Bluetooth thing in the new car.)
“You have to live there a little while to understand the aesthetic,” I said.
“I was there ten months,” he said. “Granted, I was only six at the time. Hackensack. But I remember it really well.”
“Do you,” I said. “Really? Six?”
“It’s pretty goddamn vivid,” he said. “My dad shot an intruder in our house. Twice, in the face. Bam-bam. Killed him instantly.”
“Oh,” I said. A lot of K stories leave you not quite knowing what to say.
“They arrested my dad,” he said. “Because of a lot of things, some of which I only found out a lot later. But partly because most scared homeowners don’t shoot people like that. A neat double-tap, precision-aimed? The cops figured he hadda be Somebody. And then, we were straight from Georgia, and the intruder was black. A Southern guy shoots a black dude? Like that?”
“Hm,” I said, still trying to figure out what one says.
“What it really came down to, though, I only found out way later, was that the guy downstairs was a soldier for the Gotti family, and they figured my dad was probably involved too. They had to let him go, as of course there wasn’t any proof of anything. But I only found out really recently… he was.”
K laughs. “So yeah, I remember Jersey really well.”
K is a Pennsic/elsewhere friend who tells a lot of stories. Talking to him a lot has been getting me through this exhausting autumn. I’m kind of doing a series.
