It was his special day. Everyone came out to the house in the small obscure town to be with him. His family and friends surrounded him at the table as he blew out the sparks of flame dotting the surface of the sweet, frosting covered pastry. Applause broke out, the pepper-haired woman in the corner with her stockings loosely hung around her ankles asked what he had wished for. He smiled, a twinkle of mischief in his eye.

      “Can’t tell.”

            The cake was cut, and pieces were passed out. The boy shoveled the cake into his mouth, asking through chewed clumps of bread for a glass of milk. His mind was set on the beautifully wrapped boxes sitting in the living room; some with blue paper, others with red bows. One particularly large one bore baseball players and a bright blue ribbon wrapped around the edges of the package, swirls of string spilling over the sides. He wanted to run to it and shake it, listening curiously for an sound indication that would tell what it was. But his mother had already warned him once earlier that morning when he first trampled down the stairs that no gift was to be touched until everyone had eaten their dinner and cake. He swung his legs in the chair, slapping his palms on the table, drumming out a beat to some unknown song which possibly played in his head, watching his grandmother slowly lift the spoon of softened vanilla ice cream to her pursed lips. Her hand trembled, the veins jutted out through the skin as she strained to hold the dripping ice cream on the cusp of the utensil. He squinted his eyes, tightening his joints as he anxiously slapped the table faster.

      “Jerome! Stop that noise right now! Boy, you keep this up and you ain’t getting no presents!”

            He folded his hands in his lap tightly, trying desperately to keep himself contained while the decrepit struggled to eat their food. If it took them any longer to get the spoon to their mouths, they’d die of starvation. His hands began to sweat as he wrung them under the table. He wiped them on the legs of his blue jeans, watching intensely as everyone scooped the last crumbs from the colorful paper plates. He jumped up.

      “Present time!” He raced into the living room before his mother could object and kneeled beside the gifts; his hands free suddenly began to slap against his legs as he excitedly flung his arms in the air, urging everyone to hurry.

            In a flash every beautiful sheet of paper was in tattered scraps on the floor. All gifts were revealed, and Jerome gleamed with joy. His white teeth shone radiantly against his night black skin. He lifted the sleek black stereo from the box, sending all packaging, Styrofoam, plastic cords, baggies, flying across the room. His mother looked on proudly, overjoyed that she could manage such a gift for her son, now a teenager. His family watched, chattering amongst themselves. Uncle Leo complained of business being slow; cars just weren’t getting wrecked like they used to. Cousin Lovell griped to his other cousin Isaiah about someone jacking his brand new, gold finished rims, and how he was going to bust a cap in someone’s ass with his homies. Jerome, however, paid no mind to the mindless hostility of the room, he had a new CD player to try out.

            He and his friend Eric sat outside in the alley, avoiding the gangs and drug dealers who may come along and steal his new set, and Jerome pulled a gleaming CD from its case, slipping it into the open lid. The bass thumped the speakers:

      ‘Where you from, nigga?’ ‘Straight from the motha fuckin land of the heartless…’

            They tapped their dingy air Jordan’s to the vibrations rattling the speaker grates, sitting with her hands between their knees, glaring out at the world, trying their best to look like thugs. Jerome jutted out his chin to look more mature, Eric placed his elbows far from his body so his guns were visible to any trouble walking by. Never mind that his ‘guns’ were more like water pistols.

            They sat there until the alley began to darken, despite the light lingering out in the open road. As they gathered their stuff and prepared to head home, Eric spotted something.

      “Hey! Check it out bro!”

     “Wha?”

            Jerome followed the direction that Eric’s arm pointed to, and his eyes fell on a piece of metal gleaming in the pale yellow light that cast shadows over the alleys darkest corners. Jerome squinted to make out the shape, taking a step closer and leaning down.

      “Bro it’s a gun!”

      “Daaaamn! Who’d throw a gun away?”

            Jerome scooped up the arm. The cool butt of the gun slid into his palm like a glove. The sense of power streaked through his forearm. His eyes smothered the sleek barrel, his finger caressed the curve of the trigger.

      “I wonder if its loaded.” Eric reached out to run his hand over it.

      “Man, no one would leave a gun loaded in the alley! The cops would find it for evidence.”

      “Oh, yea.”

            Jerome pointed the gun out to the open end of the alley. He closed one eye to aim, his other focusing on the notch at the end of the now seemingly longer gun’s nose. He spun around, pointing the gun at Eric.

      “What up, Nigga? You wanna fuck with me?”

      “Man, what the hell? Put that thing down, before you shoot me!”

      “Dawg, I told you, there ain’t no bullets in it! Check it out, like Clint Eastwood…”

            He took the hook that circled the trigger and spun the gun around his index, mimicking the buff cowboys in those old west movies. When he stuck his middle finger out to catch the spinning weaponry, his index slipped.

            Lights flashed, blue and white circled over the walls while the red stayed stagnant, splashed over the rustic brick of the dark alley. A man in a dingy yellow coat with reflectors sewed on covered up the young black boy with a large green tarp. Blood seeped out from under the plastic sheet in all directions. Another young black child sat on the curb across the street, his shirt soaked in a sticky red coating. Tears stained his cheeks, clearing a path through the dirt already smudged there from before. His hands dangled between his knees, his head hung low. No one was around to here him, no one needed to.

      “Happy birthday, fool.”