I was young, maybe about fifteen, and growing-up in the toughest part of town on the south side of Chicago. Anyway, one day, on my way home, I ran across some other kids, younger kids, on bikes. They raced past me on the sidewalk, nearly running me down! First one, SWISH...then another, SWISH...and another and another, SWISH, SWISH!!! Yet another daredevil flies past me and I react in a split second, grabbing the sixth or seventh! Stopped in mid-air, my outstretched arm yanks the boy off his bicycle. Blood drains from his shocked face. No sooner did I realize what I had done, that this little kid was hanging from my hand, than I heard an angry voice yell out: "Hey asshole, what the fuck you doin' with my little brother?" The boy in my grip smiled, relieved as I dropped him to the ground.

Turning my head, I found youngster, more my own age. A vein bulging out of the side of his neck pummped angry, hot blood to his brain! His face was red with rage. He wanted to fight!

Caught-up in the emotions of the moment, I wanted to fight too. The boy steps up to me, I hit him once, twice, and then I hit him again! It felt good. I felt good! I felt powerful and in control, I was sure to win this fight.

Then it happened, my adversary pulled out a knife. Murder was in his eyes! The circle of kids around us roared, cheering their approval! I was taken aback, in fear for my very life. I suddenly felt weak and vulnerable. I had no control, I was out of control, I was afraid that I might die! But, I would not run...I was, after-all, a 'south-sider.' And, our 'code' didn't allow for running away. On the other-hand, the code also didn't include the cowardly stabbing of an unarmed foe. The kid with the knife knew it, to my surprise...even though he was crazed - he pulled another knife, a Swiss Army Knife, from his pocket and tossed it to me. Reflexively, I don't remember how, I opened the blade and began defending myself!

Coming out of the shadow of fear, I took up the hunched, panther-like stance of someone in a knife fight. I knew about that from television and the movies. In reality, in this very real struggle, I was clumsy, never having fought with a knife before. He sensed his superiority and grinned. He lunged at me, and missed! I sliced through the air! He lunged at me again and I accidently jerked my arm, stabbing this boy in his gut! His expression changed, he wasn't grinning, his eyes bulged from their sockets!

On pure instinct, the survival instinct I think they call it, I stabbed again and again!!! Three times, exactly! I remember the feeling coming from the blade, through my hand and up my arm. I remember cutting through his shirt and skin into the meaty part of his gut. I remember warm, wet blood washing over my hand, the blade stopped by something hard...a bone, I think. He gasped and looked into my eyes. He was hurt, he was hurt bad!

Looking at him, looking into his sad and desperate eyes, I just saw another kid. I wasn't stabbed or cut, not physically, but my conscience was mortally wounded that day. I was mortified by what happened, by what I did. We grabbed each-other, and to be honest, to this day, I don't know who held who up. We were no longer foes, we were just a couple of scared kids from the south-side of Chicago.

We needed help, we needed a doctor. Most of the cheering and jeering mob around us fled, some of the guys stuck around out of a kind of morbid curiosity, maybe because they wanted to watch somebody die. We walked down the street to Exchange Avenue, the main street in this part of South Chicago. To our surprise, as we turned the corner, we found a gathering of police officers in front of the family-run funeral parlor facing the busy street.

We stood there for what seemed like an eternity, assessing the situation while cars drove past us, family men returning to the neighborhood from their shift at the steel mills. A few cars stopped at the two bars across the street, but we didn't notice them and they didn't notice us. It was then that I realized that I still had the bloody knife in my blood stained hand. Two uniformed officers started walking towards us. They were tall, both over six feet! They were official, both in their blue uniforms and shiney, black leather gun belts. They kept coming closer and my heart was ready to pound itself right out of my chest!

We weren't going to go to the cops for help, it wasn't even an option, it wasn't part of our 'code.' The bloody, wounded man next to me closed his jacket to hide his blood. He looked at me, he looked at a tree, and I understood. It would have been worse for me if they found the weapon on me. I quickly let go of him and feigned finding something next to the tree where I laid the knife on the ground. Foolishly, I hoped the police wouldn't see it and that they wouldn't notice all the blood on both of us.

With blood-stained hands and clothes we walked past Chicago's finest, or they walked past us, I'm not sure how you would explain it. I have to admit, I didn't care! I just wanted to get my friend to someone who could help him. We walked fast and deliberately to a house where we knew a neighborhood doctor who wouldn't report us to the police, as required by law.

To this day, I don't know what the police were doing at the funeral home or how we got past them. I did get Billy to the doctor and he did recover, we even became good friends. I recovered the knife, washed it, kept it, and used it on family camping trips. Now, this year, on his fortieth birthday, I'm giving it back to Billy at a surprise party his wife is throwing for him. It wasn't noble or special what we did that afternoon...it was just a part of growing-up on the south side during the violent sixties with a code, where-in you settled your differences like men. Hell, it scared us both enough that we stayed out of trouble for the rest of our lives.

Created: October 29, 1999r.
Last Updated: May 23, 2005r.