On June 22, 1990, my friend Greg Allen–an actor, director, and playwright who works a day job in my neighborhood–went up the street during his break to get some Fritos and milk at the nearby 7-Eleven. It was not where he usually took lunch. He was just about there when he heard a pop, felt a burning in his knee, and said, almost matter-of-factly, “I’ve been shot.” He spotted a boy pedaling away on a StingRay bicycle, and then another boy taking off after him. “A bike-by shooting,” he mused.
Greg was released two hours after being brought to the hospital. The next day he took flowers to the women at the massage school, but they were in the middle of a class so he didn’t stay long. The police called. They had the boy who’d shot him. They’d been able to find him quickly because he lived just across the street from the 7-Eleven and the massage school. I knew him. He was the most prolific criminal in the neighborhood.
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Greg, going about his business, put off calling his parents. He had a show the next night. He created it three years ago, and it’s been running ever since. In Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind 30 miniature plays are presented in 60 minutes. Two dollars plus the roll of a die determines the price of admission. The numbers 1 through 30 are hung on a clothesline about nine feet above the stage, and these correspond to the titles of the plays that are presented to the audience on a “menu” they’re given when they walk in. The audience calls out the numbers, and that determines which play is performed next. This works nicely most of the time. Chance plays a major role in just how well.
The wound took hardly any time to heal. Four months had gone by since the shooting when a woman came up to Greg after the show and said, “You know, my roommate was the one who stitched you up after you were shot.” Greg said, “Really? I thought she was really nice. I was going to ask her out, but I couldn’t because my ex-girlfriend showed up and she still gets jealous.” The woman nodded. “No kidding? Well, she kind of liked you too.” Greg asked, “Why don’t you set us up?” She shook her head. “I couldn’t do that. But I’ll give you our phone number.” Greg had never before asked anyone that he didn’t already know for a date, but he called and they went out.
The last time I saw her she was crying. She’d taken her older dog to the vet and had been advised to have him destroyed. His health problems were incurable. Through her tears she explained that she would have him put to sleep but that she wanted to keep him with her one last weekend. While she was walking the dogs in the park that Saturday afternoon, she was murdered for a couple of dollars and change. The other old people in the building shook their heads. They wouldn’t go in that park, not even in the daytime. They too mourned her, but their fears had once again been justified. They said that her body had been discovered several blocks uptown, a nice long walk from where we lived. The two little dogs were alive. They were found next to her body, nuzzling up against her hand.
But maybe the kid won’t be a criminal after he gets out. That chance bullet had started two wheels turning, and not just on the kid’s bike. Looking back, it’s easy to say it was destiny, that the path to the 7-Eleven, the bullet’s trail to Greg’s knee, and the kid’s road to prison were all laid before the event. It’s a simple matter to determine the spin of a wheel when you can look back at its track. It’s true that cities are violent, dangerous places. But they are also places where magic occurs. And the resolution of one event only starts another wheel turning.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photos/Charles Eshelman.
