How Joey Z. Saved Us All
Robert Scotellaro

Home Made
It was Joey taught us how to make a zip gun: car antenna for a barrel, a piece of two-by-four—the frame. Some friction tape to hold it all together. Rubber bands around a pointy nail to detonate the round— (a .22), and Bang!

It either put a hole in someone’s head or blew up in your face. "50/50," Joey said. "The odds. Not bad."

Matadors
The East River Drive was fast as any freeway. Crossing it was an art and a madness. A dash, a sudden stop between the whizzing cars. Joey always crossed it first.

"Stop! Go!" he coached from the other side. "Run! Run! Come on girls!"

His taunts—a knotted rope around us.

Snap, Crackle and Pop
In a yard between the tenements, Joey built a fire—held out fat bullets stolen from his dad. Had us stand in a circle around the flames as he tossed them in. When the first round ricocheted against a wall, we scattered quick as sparrows, turned only from a distance as one by one the bullets popped and zinged—saw Joey, eyes shut, saying, "Shit! Holy shit!" His feet rooted where we left them.

How Joey Saved Us
On a rooftop, six stories higher than the street, than our stickball, our marbles and our ease, Joey called us "pussies" and "queers" 'cause no one volunteered to be the first to jump from roof to roof. Struck dumb among the pigeons on the sun-soft tar, we shrank beneath his disappointed gaze, as he stepped back, then back again and took a running leap. Landed on the other side. Just. A crunch against the sliding gravel edge. The sudden stop angling him back. His arms windmilling hard to make up for it, but not enough to fight the pull. The only sound, the word: "Damn!" coming from his upside-down face—his arms still spinning, then the faraway, almost too soft thud of him landing. My mother’s words coming back to me: "You need to stop hanging out with that kid!"

So I did.