(no subject)
We were walking down Coleman Boulevard in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina. It was about nine thirty or ten at night. Pete Limpelli had been visiting us while we were on vacation in Charleston.
“This weather is great,” Pete said. “Thanks for having me down, I’ve been havin’ a friggin’ blast.”
”Pete,” I said, “it’s our pleasure.” Pete was a good old friend. Good old Pete. He had on his sepia toned prescription glasses, even though it was dark. When he walked, it was more like a saunter. I swear, and by many allegorical accounts, you can actually hear big band music play when he moves those feet.
The sidewalk along Coleman was canopied by giant elms tinseled with Spanish Moss. Haunting dangles gently yawning over our path.
Suddenly an SUV drove by and the guy in the passenger side yelled “ahhhhhh,” out the window. He had a white hat on. I jumped, and Pete fell over.
I went over to Pete. “Are you alright?” I said.
”Those fuggin’ minchias,” Pete said. He got on all fours and reached with his right to his waist. I thought he was having a heart attack or something, but he really wasn’t. Out of the belt line of his light blue polyester pants he pulled a Colt Python.
”What the hell you doing with that thing here?” I said. He had it with him the whole time, but you’d never know. That was old Pete. This wasn’t the old neighborhood, for Christ sakes.
Pete gets up and settles in to a gentle, confident stance of a trained marksman. He lowers this thing, this cannon, and lets off two blasts. I jump at both. It was scarier than the “ahhhhhh.”
The first round missed. I saw a tuft of Spanish moss sway. It made me jump. I felt a strange pain in my jaw.
The second round goes through a sticker on the back window that says ‘Cocks Donor’ and shatters the windshield. Under the halogen floodlamp about two blocks up, the windshield looks like a reddish colored prism.
I bet, if you stared long enough at the windshield, you could see a rainbow.
“Minchia,” Pete said. “I got the little prick.” He smiled at me, from behind his sepias. His tooth pick dangling.
He lowers the sight again, and lets off another round.
This time, the driver adds to the painted windshield.
The SUV crashes into a tree, and Pete puts the Colt Python back in his belt. It was a nice evening, so we decided to continue on our walk.
“I guess those guys won’t be going back to school this fall,” I said.