The Stray Revolver
By: Walter Mwasi Williams Iii
Tags: Nonfiction, Danger, Guns, Storytelling, Childhood

The first gun I ever held in my life was a large .45 revolver. I was 9 or 10 years old when I discovered it after climbing onto the roof of our house when we still lived in Oakland on 79th & Hillside. Much to my mom’s chagrin, I frequently sat on our roof when I was a child. I did that a lot while thinking. A lot of difficult events brought me to my favorite spot on the roof. I sat there after learning about the murder of my father, the shooting death of our friend Shalim, and when our other friend Icarus was killed by a speeding driver on his way to school one morning.

I spotted the revolver immediately upon climbing onto the roof. It was just lying there unexpectedly like an uninvited, drunk guest crashing on a couch. I was not scared as much as I was curious to what the hell it was doing on our roof. I went over to the gun and carefully picked it up.

I was so nervous about handling a weapon, that I kept my fingers away from the trigger, and even the hammer, because I wanted to avoid even the slightest probability of somehow causing it to fire.

I had once seen an episode of “New York: Undercover” where one of the detectives, after finding a similar gun at a crime scene, opened the weapon to check if it was loaded. I did the same. Who says television teaches a child nothing?

Both the chambers and cylinders were empty. I was uncertain on how to proceed next. It felt incredibly epic at that time. So, I sat there holding that large revolver, looking it over, imagining where it could have come from, and what it would feel like to fire it. I briefly imagined keeping such an immense discovery to myself, and the moment I opened myself to that temptation, those thoughts poured in all at once. No one knew about this discovery. It was still a secret. If I told no one this could be mine.

I stared down seeing that gun in a new light. Even thinking the words my gun made the weapon feel different in my hand. Less alien and more empowering. All I needed was the courage to seize the opportunity. Now, looking back, I realize now just how profound that seemingly minor event was. That I was standing there on the precipice of a potentially disastrous choice.

Somehow, and thankfully, better sense won out. I finally decided to take the gun to the one person who, at that age, I believed could make sense of it all. After climbing down, I went back inside our home through the backdoor. I cannot remember what my mom was doing in the living room that day, but I can easily remember her giving me a look as if I slithered in on tentacles, while honking a clown nose.

“Where did you find that?” She quickly asked in surprise.

Of course, I explained the whole story. She in turn called the police, who came to take a report, and retrieve the weapon. Later one of my brothers told me I was dumb for having brought the gun to our mom first instead of giving it to one of them. I tried to explain that if the gun was used to kill someone, or in some other crime, then if they were caught with the weapon, they would be blamed for all that stuff too. This was also something else I saw on an episode “New York: Undercover”. Of course, I was just called stupid again. A not-at-all irrational and unfair assessment of the situation.

Even now, all these years later, from time to time, I look back and wonder what was that revolver’s story up until the point we crossed paths on that day? I wonder who used its power than ditched the responsibility by tossing it on the roof of our family’s home.