I was playing my contrabass fiddle with eyes closed in a San Francisco jazz bar when I heard the loudest report of my life – that of a 16-gauge shotgun discharged indoors.
Earlier, two men had walked into the bar a few seconds apart – Billy, a moronic shit-disturber fond of the n-word, and an African-American man named Ray.
Ray, tired of Billy’s abuse, left, only to return in a minute with the aforementioned shotgun. Billy saw him and moved to the right as the shot fired. He was hit in the left shoulder and arm. Doctors saved the arm but not the use of it.
Meanwhile, Ray was wrestled to the floor. I heard a woman scream, “Don’t hurt him! I went to City College with him!”
Ray’s lawyer got the charge busted down to assault with a deadly weapon. Billy talked a new game, apparently eschewing violence. Then I learned he had returned to his old shtick – with only one arm.
Ray learned the value of an expensive lawyer. Billy learned nothing. I learned to play with eyes wide open.
