Guns*

*True story of Al Zimbler’s life as it appears in his fifth short story humor book DATING AND MATING SECRETS OF SENIORS AND OTHER SHORT STORIES OF LOVE AND SEX

Growing up, I never saw a real gun. I saw them in movies and magazines but not in person until I was in the Army Air Corps during WWII. It was a rifle on a shooting range in Miami Beach, Florida. Guns were unknown objects to most people in the ’30s in Chicagoland in Irish, Polish, and Jewish neighborhoods. Only real gangsters carried guns. I read about Al Capone, John Dillinger, and Machine Gun Kelly. No dope problems then, just prohibition wars over who could sell illegal booze until the law changed again in 1933.

I lived in the Lawndale section of Chicago: the West Side. My Uncle Jake owned a Jewish deli on Kildare Avenue near Franklin Park. The deli was a meeting place. Not many families owned automobiles. My uncle had a penny peanut vending machine in front of his store, and you could guess how many of those seniors must have stayed and paid a penny for another batch of peanuts. You could tell because of the peanut shells piled up in front. The deli also had a jukebox. One for a nickel or three for a dime, you could play the newest Hit Parade songs. My uncle’s corned beef sandwiches were the largest, thickest, and fattest in Lawndale.

Recently, one of the members of my men’s club told me he’d lived in the apartment building next to me all those years ago. Because he’s eight years younger, we weren’t in the same grammar school classes. After he asked me if I was related to Zimbler’s deli, he told me his father owned a small grocery store two blocks away from the deli.

One night his parents closed up Levinson’s grocery at 8:30. They were famished, so they walked over to my uncle’s deli, which closed at 9:00. They were sitting in one of the six booths in the deli enjoying a 20-cent sandwich. The door flew open, and a man rushed in and pointed a gun at my uncle. He knew this was a real gun because he’d served in the Army during the Great War. “Open your register, and give me all your money. And you two sitting in that booth, put down your food. I want all your money!”

The Levinsons stood up, shaking, and Mr. Levinson emptied his pockets. Mrs. Levinson was not carrying a purse and had nothing to place on the table. The robber looked at the two dimes and told Mr. Levinson to keep it because it appeared Mr. Levinson needed the money more than he did. The gunman assumed my uncle’s cash register would be sufficient for his needs.

My uncle emptied the register, placing a couple of one-dollar bills, three quarters, two dimes, and a nickel on the counter for the robber.

“Where’s the rest?” the robber wanted to know.

My uncle told him that he didn’t have any more cash. He didn’t have a checking account and he’d lost his $300 that he had on deposit when the banks went broke in 1929.

The gunman scooped up my uncle’s money and then hesitated before going out. He turned back and demanded my uncle make him one of those famous corned beef sandwiches. “Make it on Rosen’s rye bread, and make sure there’s plenty of that corned beef.” My uncle did so and placed it in a paper bag.

“And where is the pickle barrel?” the robber screamed at my uncle.

My uncle pointed to the pickle barrel, and the robber walked there, dug his hands into the bottom of the barrel, and pulled out a huge green pickle. As he left the store, he growled at my uncle and told him he had better have a lot more money in his register the next time the robber paid a visit. When the robber left, the Levinsons stayed long enough to finish their sandwiches, not wishing to go outside for fear of the gunman.

The next day my uncle went out and bought a Babe Ruth heavyweight baseball bat and placed it under the store counter.