AK-47

The bus ride today was filled with older women in the front discussing yesterday's murder.
"They just keep killing us."
"Who?"
"We do. Us, ourselves."

Yesterday about an hour after I got to work, someone was shot to death in the Potrero Hill projects, on the same path that rumbling bus takes through rows of temporary military housing from the 1940s.

Two other people were injured, hit by the spray of the AK-47; one of them was the son of a coworker. Her eyes fixed on mine as she expressed her desire to leave, to get out of this reality of disproportionate gun violence. Her son was on his way to the Neighborhood House to check the job board when the car screeched by and unloaded bullets into the windy summer air. Luckily, the fat on his stomach and sides saved him from a paralyzing spinal injury.

On the back of the crowded bus there was a group of elementary school-age boys with fresh new toy guns purchased from the 99 cent store. During the entire ride, the four boys pulled the triggers, until the constant clicking became as normal as the purr and struggle of the engine.