It was 1984, and I lived and worked in New Orleans. My godfather gave me a gun. It’s a little Italian automatic, very small, fits in my palm, and it is now—as I write—in the drawer by my bed, just where my godfather told me to keep it.

 

I shot it once. At his fishing camp in Bay St. Louis. I’ve never shot it again. I remember that I said, “Hey, I could get in trouble for having this.” He replied, “Well, you’ll be alive to get in that trouble, won’t you.”

 

Good point.

 

And that’s it. It’s still by my bed. And it’s still loaded.