John Ball: Johnny Get Your Gun

“Are you cryin’?” he demanded.

Johnny wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I was just thinkin’ about the guy who tried to hurt you,” he invented to hide his shame. “And the goddamn cop.”

“That’s right,” Mike responded. “The goddamned cop.”

There was a union at that moment, an understanding between father and son. “Kid,” Mike said. “It’s tough sometimes, but if you want to get along in this world, and be respected, remember not to take anythin’ from nobody. You’re a good clean white boy and you don’t have to. You’re as good as anyone, see?”

Johnny absorbed this thoughtfully, noting the silence of his mother. “Dad, how come Willie Mays is a-” He could not say the distasteful word in speaking of one so great. “How come he isn’t white?”

Mike had no real answer to that question. “Because he wasn’t born that way, I guess,” he said a little roughly. “But don’t worry your head about that, just remember what I told you.” He nodded to indicate that he was finished.

Johnny rose and walked into his room, thoughtfully pondering his father’s advice. He shut the door and turned on his radio. In the scant weeks that he and his parents had been here he had made few acquaintances and no friends; in his lonesome little life the radio had opened the door to a magnificent new world. People played music for him to listen to and they told him, play by play, what was happening in the big league baseball games. Seated on the edge of his bed he clutched the little set in both hands and reveled in its magic.

In the morning, when he left for school, he carefully bunched his jacket with his hand to hide the rectangular shape in his pocket.

His mother took no particular notice of him when he was ready to go out the door, instead she was thinking that as soon as he had left she would be able to sit down with a cigarette and a cup of coffee to compose herself.

Her nerves were on edge. During breakfast Mike had rehashed the matter of the traffic ticket and it had only underlined things. She did not like the place where they were living, there was no joy for her in her marriage, and matters never seemed to get any better. When she heard Johnny’s “Good-bye, Mommy,” she said something automatic in reply and then resigned herself to the routine day ahead.

With the tingling sensation of a secret known to himself alone, Johnny got on the school bus and took his usual seat. He hardly seemed to be aware of the familiar ride. It was so seldom that he had something of which to be proud, anything new to wear, or any accomplishment to describe with glowing satisfaction at home.

The usually dull forenoon took on a new keenness as the lunch hour approached. When the bell at last rang, he ran to the cafeteria area to open his little bag of food and enjoy the incomparable luxury of eating in the company of the unseen broadcasters who would be there the moment that he clicked the switch and brought his radio into throbbing life.

As soon as he was seated he pulled out his little set and turned it on. A blast of rock and roll music answered him; he turned the dial until he heard something he liked. The music lifted his thoughts as he ate his sandwich and he thrilled to the joy of possession.

He had almost finished eating when Billy Hotchkiss, from nowhere, snatched the radio away. He took full advantage of the fact that he was two years older and considerably the larger; with the skill of a born prankster he held the set on his hand just out of reach and dared Johnny to try for it.

In that instant Johnny’s world was frozen. With a noise in his throat he stretched out both his hands, trying to reclaim his set and unconsciously imploring its return. Every minute lost was something he was missing, something that was almost the key to life itself.

Billy danced away, a mocking smile on his lips. “Come and get it,” he invited. As Johnny jumped to his feet, his meal forgotten, Billy began to run. Because of his size he could run much faster, and even with the urgency of desperation Johnny could not catch him. Every few moments Billy slowed down, then when Johnny could almost touch him he sprang away again, waving his hand with the radio in it over his head. Then he tossed it into the air and caught it.

The bell rang. That was a blessed relief, the lunchtime game was over and Billy would hand back the radio. He had done a cruel thing and Johnny would not forgive him for a long, long time.

“Hurry up back or you’ll be late,” Billy warned. Then standing on tiptoe he pushed the radio up onto a high window ledge where Johnny could not possibly reach it. “Be good,” Billy said, “and I’ll get it down for you after school. Now run!”

In blind, frustrated rage, Johnny lowered his head and charged his tormentor, his fists flying. Billy sidestepped expertly and slapped Johnny neatly on the side of the face. Johnny attacked again, with desperate intensity, but Billy only blocked his blows. He laughed at the huge success of his joke played on the much smaller boy who wore funny clothes and talked in such a peculiar way. He had meant to give back the radio, but his teasing had borne wonderful fruit and he didn’t want to surrender such rich fun.

The final bell rang, the one which would have to be obeyed. Billy took to his heels and left Johnny alone, it was the easiest way to keep things as they were. Johnny tried once to reach his precious set, saw that it was impossible, and vowed revenge.

During the two hours of the afternoon school session he sat at his desk, his lips together, a hard look in his eyes. When at last he was released for the day, he ran back to where his radio was, determined to ask the first person tall enough to do so to reach it down for him.

Once the radio was safely back in his own hands the crisis would be over, but the agony of it would not cease until that moment. He could see the edge of his precious set protruding over the sill-proof at least that it was still there.

Billy appeared beside him. “So you want your radio, huh?” he mocked. “Well, why don’t you reach up and get it.”

Johnny gritted his teeth together. “Give me my radio!” he demanded.

Billy laughed. “Now you’re not going to get anything asking like that.” He reached up and touched the set, emphasizing his ability to do what Johnny could not.

Johnny looked quickly around him for help, but the playground was almost empty. School was over and the children were rapidly leaving. All of the fury which he had been holding down during the bitter afternoon seized hold of him; without warning he lashed out. He caught Billy by surprise, his right fist landed on the older boy’s cheek. For a moment Billy was stunned, then he swung his arms out and knocked Johnny down. Stretching up, he pulled down the radio and held it as if to dash it on the ground.

Johnny was on his feet, the knee of his trousers split, ready to fight to the death. Billy sensed that the joke had gone too far; he gulped air, sped a few feet away and when he had enough distance turned and threw the radio. He hadn’t meant to do that, but he had been struck on the face and he was angry. As soon as the set was in the air he saw that Johnny wouldn’t be able to catch it.

With one desperate lunge Johnny hurled himself toward the point where the radio would fall. It brushed the ends of his frantic fingers, dribbled off, and fell to the asphalt surfacing.

Billy came from where he was standing, when Johnny did not move he ventured a step or two nearer to him. From there he could see that the case was cracked.

“Gee, Johnny, I’m sorry,” he offered. His anger was gone in the cold reality of guilt.

Johnny did not hear him. With a sob racking his throat, he bent over and tenderly picked up the little plastic case that only seconds before had been to him a living thing, the best friend he had.