Toolie

Jimola sat on the edge of his bed breathing hard. He had just run up seven flights of stairs, past his mom in the living room watching TV and into his bedroom. His pulse was racing. His hands were sweaty. He could actually hear the blood in his head pounding in his eardrums. He felt an icy excitement.
“Boy, why are you running in this house like that?”
“Nuthin’ Ma, just playin’ outside.”
Jimola listened for a moment to make sure his mother wasn’t coming into his room. When he was satisfied that she was satisfied with his answer, he reached under his sweatshirt and pulled it out. It felt heavy in his hands and was kind of slippery. The rain was coming down pretty hard outside and he wondered if that had damaged it at all.
“It” was a .380 caliber semi-automatic pistol. It was shiny black with a brown grip. Jimola wrapped the bottom of his sweatshirt around the gun and dried it off carefully. He didn’t know if it was loaded or not. After all, this was his first gun; he didn’t want to blow his own head off trying to clean the damn thing.
When he finally got it dry, Jimola held the gun in his hand and pointed it at his reflection in the bedroom mirror.
“Bang, bang”, he said. Damn, I look mean, he thought. He pulled his hood up over his head. He looked in the mirror and whispered, “What you lookin’ at fool?” he pointed the gun again. Yeah! It wasn’t so heavy now. As a matter of fact, it felt just right. Still looking in the mirror, Jimola tucked the gun into the waistband of his baggy pants. He pulled his sweatshirt down over it to see if there was a bulge. He saw nothing. He smiled, lifted up his sweatshirt with one hand & with the other arm in a sort of shrug away from his body and said to the mirror, “Oh, we got a problem here? We got a problem nigguh?”
To Jimola he was the perfect image of the “roughneck”. Anyone else watching this little boy acting tough in front of a mirror would have probably thought that this kid had seen one too many movies. They would not have been far from the truth either, because Jimola’s favorite thing in the whole wide world was movies. And he loved the gangsters. The bad guys appealed to him the most because they were everything he wanted to be and could never be.
Jimola’s father had died of a heart attack when he was three years old and his mother was forced to move into the projects and raise Jimola on her own. She raised her son up sheltered from the outside as much as possible, she taught him to be kind and gentle, to share and love his little friends in the building. But in the Unity Houses in the East New York section of Brooklyn, kindness is often taken for weakness, and the other boys labeled Jimola “soft”. Even now that he was fourteen, a man in this neighborhood, Jimola was still a good kid. When the other boys were shooting each other and trying to grow up all in one big step. He went to school everyday and came home to do his homework and watch TV. The kids at school called him a “track star” because he ran more then he fought. He was always running….
Well, those days were over now. Now he would get his “props” in the neighborhood. Because now he had a jammie, a burner, a toolie! That’s what the kid’s in his building called their guns, a tool or a toolie, because with it you could “put in work”.
Jimola sat down on the bed again to examine the gun more closely. At the top, on one side there was a small switch. He moved the switch and it released the magazine clip from the bottom. Jimola then pulled back the slide at the top of the gun, like he had seen Sonny Crockett do on re-runs of Miami Vice, it moved smoothly with a loud click at the end. He loved it. He also knew that the gun was empty now. Although Jimola had never had a gun before he had seen enough of them on TV & in the movies to know that this was an automatic that took a clip & that you had to pull the slide back to put a bullet in the chamber or take one out. He raised his mattress and put the gun & the ammunition clip at the top near where his head would be, dropped it back into place & went into the bathroom to start his bath.
“You hungry, Jimola?” his mom called from the living room. “I left you some fish sticks and French fries on the stove.”
“OK ma”, Jimola loved his mother, she was always looking out for him, but now he had to start looking out for himself he thought. He gobbled the warm food while the tub filled with hot soapy water.
Afterwards, Jimola lay on his bed thinking hard. How he had come by this weapon was pure luck. He was coming home from the store, when he saw that kid Rock and his crew standing in front of the building. As usual they were drinking those big bottles of beer and “slinging” crack. They thought that they owned this small piece of earth in front of Jimola’s building. In reality they might as well be the owners, because they sold drugs all day and night like they had a license to do so. Rock and his boys did whatever they wanted to do, whenever they wanted. Between running from the cops and the occasional shoot-outs with the other crews, these boys were the kings of their own little kingdom, a half-block long. They would live and die right here; never knowing what life outside of Brooklyn was really like. They were prisoners of a society they did not create, trapped by their own decisions.
Jimola watched these boys in front of the building and knew that they would never let him pass without a hassle, so he ducked into the bushes along the side of the building. The shrubbery was about 2ft. high and went all the way around to within three feet of the entrance. It was already dark outside and Jimola figured that if he stayed low he could make it inside without being seen. “Damn, look at me,” he thought, “got to sneak in my own house!” But he’d rather sneak then risk a confrontation with Rock. After all, Rock was known thru-out the projects for his one punch knockout power.
It had been raining off and on all day and as Jimola was duck walking towards the front door, it was coming down pretty steady. He thought of himself, just then, as a real duck, trying to make it back to the safe nest before the hungry wolves devoured him (It would be years before he would understand how true his thoughts were). A loud screeching sound startled him back to reality.
Jimola turned just in time to see the cops pull up to were the boys were standing. The boys scattered with the two cops going after the ones they wanted. One of the boys, a crazy kid they called CJ, was running right towards the spot where Jimola was now hiding. Like the little duck that he was Jimola was frozen with fear and at any moment expected this boy to come crashing down on top of him. Instead, CJ cut right and started around the building. When he turned, he threw something in the bushes and almost hit Jimola right in the face. The gun just stayed right in the bushes. Stuck! It seemed to just hover in mid-air, two inches from his face. Jimola stayed in the bushes until the coast was clear. He grabbed the gun and ran upstairs.
Now as Jimola lay in his bed, he was having a bitter struggle within. Everything that he was ever taught told him to get rid of the gun. But peer pressure and the influences of the outside world told him that he needed a gun. Deep down inside, the gun frightened him. He was also thrilled thinking about the power that it could give him. Damn! This was crazy! He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
“I’ll keep it until tomorrow.” He said to no one. “Then I’ll decide what to do.”
Jimola rolled over and closed his eyes, but it was a long time before he fell asleep.

The next day Jimola toyed with the thought of taking his new “toolie” to school. Then he remembered the metal detectors. Since the shooting of two students at his school, Thomas Jefferson, they had put metal detectors at the front doors. He loaded the clip in the gun and put it back under his mattress. He had decided to keep it “just in case…”
On the way to school he saw Rock and the other boys who had run from the cops the night before. They were crowded around the front of the building in almost the exact same spot. ‘Nothing changes’, thought Jimola. As he walked around the boys, the aroma of the “blunts” they were smoking filled the early morning air and his nostrils. Jimola looked at the boys and frowned. It was involuntary, he meant nothing by it, but that kid Rock was looking right at him. And in this world of low self-esteem, self-hate and false pride, a frown was a show of disrespect.
“Yo man! What ‘cha lookin’ at?” Rock was staring right at Jimola. As a matter of fact, all four of the boys were staring now.
“Take yo’ butt to school, sissy!” They all started laughing. Jimola’s eyes held Rock’s for a split second and Jimola thought to himself, “One of these days I’m gonna have ta’ bust a cap in your ass.” He turned and started walking to school, the blunt smoke and laughter drifting behind him.
After school, Jimola was walking home with a girl who lived next door to him. Her name was Liz and she was a nice, cute friendly person. Jimola liked her a lot. A couple of times at school he wanted to tell someone about his new found courage, at home under his mattress, but he didn’t. Now on the way home he wanted to tell Liz. He wanted to impress her and let her know that he was someone to be respected now. No longer was he a “track star.” The more he thought about it, the more he decided not to tell her. She seemed to like him already, anyway. She probably wouldn’t understand and he might scare her away. So, he just smiled and listened to her talk.
As they approached the front of the building, Jimola spotted them. It seemed like there were more of them now. The sun was shining and the courtyard was full of people. Jimola and Liz threaded their way thru all the people and came abreast of the boys. Jimola heard somebody call his name, he turned and saw Rock standing there smiling.
“Hey, Jimola….” Jimola kept walking.
“Who’s that pretty girl?” His heart was beating really fast now. He felt Liz grab his arm.
“C’mon Jimola,” she said.
“Yeah, go on Jimola. You and that little bitch better get in the house.”
Jimola spun around and got right in Rock’s face, “She ain’t no bitch, man.” He snarled.
Rock kept smiling, “What’cha gonna do man?”
Jimola shrugged and said, “Whatever.”
Rock’s face hardened. He stepped back and threw a round house right at Jimola’s head. Jimola ducked the wild punch and pushed Rock as hard as he could. Rock flew back and fell into the other boys. Jimola turned and ran into the building. A beer bottle crashed on the pavement behind him. Jimola heard the angry shouts of the boys as he dashed up the stairs. He was scared but he was mad too! Rock had “dissed” him in front of Liz and that was the last straw! He would show them all that he was not to be messed with anymore. He got to his door and stabbed his key at the lock three times before he got the door open. He could hear them coming into the building making all kinds of noise. He ran into the bedroom and got the gun. He was fuming! In a split second he had made up his mind to shoot them all. Anyone who came into the hall would be fair game. Jimola went to the open door with the gun in his hand. He peeked out around the corner to see if they had reached his floor yet. The hallway was quiet. He stepped out and started towards the stairway. Jimola pulled the door open and stared down into the darkness. The crack heads had smashed the lights out so many times; they were never put back in. He could now hear voices down below him. Jimloa was out of his mind. He was beyond reason, beyond fear. He was determined to finish this here and now. He pressed his body against the wall, both arms stiff out in front of him with the gun in his hands. He whispered thru clenched teeth over and over, “I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna kill you.” It was as if by saying it again and again he could justify his insanity. He reached the landing just as the door swung open. Jimola pointed the gun and closed his eyes. He pulled the trigger three times…
Jimola’s ears were filled with the sounds of screaming, his own as well as someone else’s, but no sounds of gunfire. He was not aware that he was still pulling the trigger and the gun was just clicking, not firing (he had forgot to pull back the slide).
In the open doorway stood Jimola’s mother, behind her stood Liz. When he opened his eyes, their terror filled gazes met his. He lowered the gun and the screaming stopped. All of the life seemed to drain out of him. He slid down the wall until his rear-end thudded on the floor. When Jimola realized how close he had come to shooting his mom and Liz, his body began to shake. His shoulders heaved with the loud sobs that he suddenly could not stop. The tears flowed freely. His face was a mask of pain, fear, and anger.
Rock and two of his crew were coming up the stairs; they stopped when they saw Jimola on the floor and the two women in the doorway. The only sound on the landing was Jimola’s crying. Nobody moved. The tension hung in the air tight and thick. Finally, Rock walked over to where Jimola sat, he looked down at the sobbing boy and then at Jimola’s mother. He squatted and put his face inches from Jimola’s. His voice was not loud, but in the empty hallway everyone could hear him clearly.
“Don’t try to be hard when you ain’t hard. Just be what you is, man.” Rock snatched the gun from Jimola’s hand, “Leave the rough stuff to the real gangsters.” He got up and turned towards the two women. He spoke to Jimola’s mother, “He’ll be alright. Just take him home, we ain’t gonna do nuthin’ to him.” The three teenaged boys turned and walked down the steps into the darkness, to deal with whatever destiny awaited them.
Jimola pushed himself up and away from the wall. His mom came over and put her arms around him and now she couldn’t stop crying. She cried as much for her son as for all black boys who were forced to grow up too fast. She cried for all of the families who were forced to bury their babies in a society that didn’t seem to care. Jimola looked at Liz and she had a sad look on her face.
“Come on,” he said, and the three of them walked up the stairs and into the apartment. Liz was carrying a newspaper, but dropped it before the door closed. The paper was folded in half and if someone was looking, they would have seen an article that read: “Firearm Homicide No.1 Killer of Black Men Ages 15 to 34.”