Comradere. Togetherness. A family. The loyalty of one to it’s pack goes back since the earliest dawning of life. When one individual gets threatened, the pack defends it against that threat. If that threat happens to be another individual, their pack is ready to back him up as well. Now, the problem of two becomes the rivalry of many. Gang violence is born.

It’s not as easy as it was in the old days. It was the varsity jacket rich kids against the clean white shirt poor kids. It was the west side matched up with the east side. It was the Hispanics versus.. the… other Hispanics. Now, gangs need color coded head bands and secret handshakes just to tell whose on what side. Can you tell the difference between a Sunni, Kurd or Shiite? I didn’t think so.

In retrospect of this once, easy to understand group warfare, I swear I witnessed some type of 50th anniversary of some type in the local mall food court.

As I walked in, towards my right were three tables pushed together. Around that table were eight or so senior citizens having a heated debate (as much as you can with a weak heart and irregular colon, which I’m pretending all old people have) about something written on a piece of paper.

The “leader” of the group, which I’m assuming because he wore a hat while the others were head-cover free, was pointing at the piece of paper while making senile eye contact with the man across from him, I’d like to call him Scuzzy because cool 50s gangs always had a guy with a nickname like that, and mumbling something I couldn’t understand ten feet away, and probably wouldn’t have even if I was sitting next to him.

When I finally dragged my gaze away from them, I turned to see ANOTHER group of older gentlemen, and two woman, at a table pushed all together. I did a double take at both groups, making sure the original group hadn’t somehow moved while I was blinking. Two groups. Rivals. Separated only by a small train track in the middle of the food court, which had three small children riding it screaming at their parents to look at them. If violence broke out, they would be the first innocent victims to fall.

I decided that my best course of action was to eat pizza and monitor them some more. Since the pizza place was on the west side of the tracks, I felt safer sitting close to the second gang. By buying food on their turf, it showed I was supporting their local economy and was a “Westie” as I’m now referring to everyone on that side.

The Westies were a group of three men and two woman. The leader of this group, I decided was the one with the full head of hair combover and because he had a hot chick (see 1959 high school yearbook) on his arm. His best pal sat next to him while his wife sat on the opposite end of the table, across from the leader’s girl. Clearly he only married this girl because he was loyal to the leader, and he had to date the hot girl’s best friend for double dates. They hardly ever speak at home unless its about the leader and his girl. They think of their friends when they are forced to have intercourse by some anniversary or holiday.

The last man with them was reading the newspaper and had no interest in the conversation. Think of this guy as the group’s intel, the planner, the schemer. He knows everything about anything, or at least something about everything… well maybe just things… randomly… Anyway, this was the remainder of their Westies. Just chilling and overseeing their land, like the feudal lords of their parents’ times.

Across the tracks, the only barrier between peace and mass chaos, the Eastside Boys were angry. Perhaps this was their date for revenge. Planning since that day at the speakeasy on the main drag when their ol’ tin lizzie gave out. Eastside leader wanted the Westies girl. He sat next to her in English and they had a few conversations: “Do you have a pencil?” or “Did you hear about these new television things? Will never catch on.”

Westies leader took the girl to prom, she won homecoming queen, and the rest is history. Until today. Eastside had made a pact at graduation to put notes in a time capsule and they would open them up in 50 years, and if they hadn’t achieved their dreams; They would make them happen together.

50 years had passed, and the time capsule was opened. The notes, for the most part, were as juvenile as you’d expect from high school graduates. Mostly about boobs. But one stood out. “Kill whats-his-name from the Westies.” The deed clearly wasn’t done, and it was up to the Eastside Boys to live up to their 18 year old self promises.

So here they were, ready to act, when Scuzzy had a change of heart. He didn’t want to be involved and they were fighting as their prey lay dormant a mere 10 yards away. All these years of waiting and plotting will go to waste. Scuzzy gets up and leaves. I spill marinara sauce on my shirt. The Westies stand up and move to the exits.

There is eye contact made between Eastside Boys leader and Westie leader. There is a pause. Will there be fireworks? Will it scare all the old people because fireworks are really loud?

No. They both look away. One too proud. One too embarrassed. Both lives taken a different path. Whether they’ve decided that violence isn’t the answer at all, or they’ve learned to let the past be. The world is safe still.

The children continue to ride the train. Their laughter fills the air like a warm breeze. I think their parents left without them. It’s been like 15 minutes.

Dear Old Lady Who Loves Eye Contact And May or May Not be Trying to Kill Me,

You have a gift. You also have a curse. Your ability to hold a complete stranger’s eyes within your own for such an extended period of time will do well in the corporate world. It will give you the reputation of trustworthy, honest, and a good listener.

However, when I’m sitting at the table across from you in the food court of the local mall with several empty tables all around us… it makes me think you’re an assassin.

I sat down first after buying my two pepperoni rolls, and I respect your selection of a more healthy Subway wrap. There wasn’t a great amount of people in the food court today, so I chose a middle table and was focused on my meal.

Like the laser sight of a sniper rifle, I felt a burn on the top of my forehead. Gradually looking up, I noticed you chose the table directly perpendicular to my own. And not just the table, but the exact seat selection facing me down at a razor’s edge straight line of awkwardness.

Perhaps you’re a creature of habit. Perhaps you’ve sat at that table for 100 years, far before the mall was built around it and you would stare down squirrels and talking field mice that would wear little sweaters and drive motor cars. Maybe.

More likely though, you’re a government trained, now rogue, agent of death sent by one of my many enemies to dispatch my existance for the betterment of their selfish deeds. Probably.

A clever move by your superiors, thinking I wouldn’t suspect an old lady wearing slippers and a sweater with kittens on it. But I am not careless, like those kittens and their ball of yarn they are frozen with on your chest, I’ve been waiting for you ever since my first threat of violence.

I met your eye the first time and feigned a smile. You gave no emotion. A clear indication of your intent. My pupils danced back and forth every few seconds looking to see if you were still bulging your eyes in my direction. Each time confirming your presence like an icy hand on my bare shoulder… if I was wearing a spaghetti strap shirt… which would be weird.

You continued to gaze at me while I decided to concentrate on my food like an Economics midterm. I would not give you the pleasure of seeing my eyes before you struck. If this was your task, and I was your goal then seize your opportunity and make it your own before it was too late. If a stealthy and quick demise is the way I must go, then so be it. I have accepted my fate and I’m ready for your worst.

After what felt like a minute or so, I looked back up and you were gone. Vanished into a sea of children, soccer moms, high schoolers, and other old lady assassins. Perhaps my arrogance of refusing you rstare had upset you. Maybe you stated you could kill me anytime you wanted, but not today. You will return to your house. For it is not a home. A home is filled with love and warmth and family. None of these things are in your life. You don’t pay the heat because the cold keeps you from a deep sleep where you would be vulnerable for vengence. You refuse to read, convinced that all written text is untrustworthy because of its unknown origin. You may have other prey that you wait on. It is too egotistical to think you are simply waiting for my thread to end. Regardless of your absence, it was a relief and I sleep easy knowing that I have seen my end and moved past it.

Oh, and in the off chance that you weren’t an assassin… then you were creepy as hell and probably why you were eating alone.

Respectfully yours,
C.F.