Sometime in the 60’s. It was a summer when race riots were happening all over the country. Including in Providence that summer. That week.
I belonged to an Irish street gang, that hung out on summer nights at a street corner, in front of a pharmacy, upper East side of Providence. We were not a violent gang at all, mostly just hung out smoking joints and drinking beer. Some hijinks of course, but the police never considered us a real problem. The pharmacist might have, but we owned that corner.
To get to that corner, I had to drive through a tough black neighborhood. And stop to pick up a friend. In the back seat was my air rifle. Loved target practice with my air rifle. It was usually on the back seat. My friend, who had a strange concept of what constituted great practical jokes, took the rifle and pointed it out the window at an elderly black man walking down the street.
I flip out. “John, are you out of your mind!!”. We get to the street corner. Within minutes, seemed like every cop car in Providence was converging on that corner. And I’m hiding in the pharmacy. A large crowd grows, easily over 100 people, mostly black, watching all the cops surrounding my car, retrieving the air gun.
My friend is doubled over laughing.
What could I do, I had to walk out and man up. Yep, that’s my car, but nope, that’s not my rifle. One cop drives in front of me, one behind. We’re going to jail in downtown Providence. The cops pick up another guy, who the man my friend had pointed the rifle at, identified. Incorrectly, obviously. As we’re led away, there’s my friend, all but laying on the ground he’s laughing so hard. What a great practical joke! Not!
Before we arrive at the station, I have to get rid of grass and acid, both on my person. So, I make sure the cop in front is not looking at me in his rear view, and the cop behind is not looking right at me, and I successfully drop the drugs out the driver window in the middle of downtown Providence. Well, at least I got that right.
Now, we’re in separate cells. The guy who did nothing is balling his eyes out in the next cell, and promising revenge on me. The cops ask me who owns the rifle. They really admired it, I can still see them taking turns to admire it. And I come up with a story so dumb, I’m surprised the cops didn’t double over laughing as well.
“Well, I picked up a hitchhiker, didn’t know the guy, and he was carrying the rifle”.
“You picked up a stranger who was carrying a rifle?!” “Yeah, he ran away when you guys showed up, I guess he left the rifle in my car”.
That was my story. They let us go. As I’m walking out, the detective that questioned me says “you sure you don’t want this rifle?”. “On no, that’s not mine!”. Hated to lose that rifle, and I guess I didn’t have to, but no way could I change my dumb story at that point.
