In downtown Athens–there was about a block of it, around the square–there was the Limestone Drugstore. Kids came in like hoplites or cohorts or hordes, or anyway one of those things in history and leaned their BB guns near the door, with their baseball gloves too usually. We didn’t shoot each other with the BB guns because we just didn’t. We didn’t need the po-leese to tell us not to do it because it wasn’t something we did.
We all had one, every kid that was eleven years old. Mostly they were Red Ryder, for four dollars, but I had a Daisy Eagle, that had a plastic telescopic sight, and was no end uptown. Anyway, you could go into any little corner store and get a pack of BBs for a nickel.
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It will be like studying cave drawings, or Sargon of Akkad. You Anyway the man that owned the Limestone was about eighty or a hundred years old and had frizzy red hair like a bottle brush and his name was Coochie. He liked little boys–not like those Catholic preachers always in the newspapers–we didn’t do that either–but just liked kids. We’d take them to school because they were in our pockets and it was hard to leave your pocket somewhere even if you thought of it. It would have seemed like a damn fool idea, like eating a peanut butter sandwich dipped in kerosene. I guess how people are is what they’re going to do, not what laws you have.