The first time I ever saw an Uzi, I was five years old. It was in an IHOP parking lot in the middle of the day. A man named Isaac, who owned a bakery and was a friend/business associate of my fathers, was the one with the automatic weapon.
I had gone with my father and Isaac to unload a box truck of Isaac’s, full of used commercial kitchen equipment. Him and the old man had a side business, something about getting equipment on the cheap, slapping a fresh coat of paint on them, grease up the gears and joints and flip it. Quick.
So, we unloaded this truck at a warehouse in Pompano Beach not far from the townhouse I spent the first five years of my life in. We went to get pancakes after we were done. The breakfast I have no recollection of, but I’d imagine I had the pigs in a blanket. That was always what I ordered when I was at IHOP as a kid. Oh, and chocolate milk.
Anyways, so after we were done eating, we hung out in the parking lot for a bit while my Pop and Isaac talked over who they could unload the equipment to after it had been shined up. My father is a short Italian man, maybe five feet seven inches with black hair, a fairly big schnoz to go with his southern Italian swarthiness. Born and raised in north Jersey. Isaac on the other hand, was a bald hulking figure from what I can remember. A Jewish man from New York. They’ve known each other for a long time, but if you ask the old man now where Isaac is, he couldn’t tell you.
“Lemme show the kid,” Isaac said to my Pop with a smile.
“No, no, no,” Pop replied.
They had gotten my attention. I could tell from Isaac’s mischievous smile that it was something unbelievable. Something I’ll never forget. I started to egg on my father to let me see. What? I had no idea. But I was sure I wanted to see whatever it is that he didn’t want me to see.
“Come on, we’re all men here. He should know a thing or two,” Isaac pushed further.
Now I really wanted to know what they were talking about. Any young son, when he’s with his father, wants to be treated like one of the grown ups. So I pestered my Pop some more.
My father looks around briefly to see if anyone else was in the parking lot with us, “Alright. Go ahead.”
Isaac, grabs the catch to the door to his box truck and pulls it up, letting the door roll up into the ceiling. The box truck of course was empty, being that we had just unloaded all the equipment. There were a few empty knish boxes deep in the back of the truck. Isaac, lifts his large frame into the trunk and walks to the very back, past the empty knish boxes. He grabs something from the darkened corner of the back of the trucks storage. As he emerged, he had something wrapped in cloth…two things actually. He climbs out of the truck and removed the cloth from the things that he held in each hand. In one hand was some sort of revolver. In the other hand he held an Uzi. I had never seen one before except in the movies, and I haven’t seen one since.
“This is what happens, if anyone messes with your family.”
Bio: Hank McCoy is a writer and hip hop artist who made his bones in the Chicago hip hop scene. Hank has been published in print and online. He’s written for music blog (covering the Chicago underground music scene), streetwear fashion brands, RE:Com magazine, as well as being published in online literary journals and the odd newspaper here and there. Hank’s also put out several hip hop records that would give you nightmares. He is currently shopping around his first crime novel Miles and Miles of Killing while he writes his next novel. Twitter @hankthereal Instagram @hankthereal