Cash for Guns program warmly welcomes all kinds — of people
NEW YORK, April 28, 2009—Abandoned. Hardly hidden, it was nestled behind a car tire. Anthony’s pulse quickened, his eyes nervously darting. No prying eyes. He scooped up the snub nose, suddenly feeling endangered. The cold frame matte black with dark wood grip panels. His stroll quickened urgently. He trashed two unfired bullets from the cylinder.
This was Harlem in the 1970’s, “It was crazy, the streets were dangerous then. Someone used it for crime, but I’m no criminal.” Anthony Alexander pocketed a .32 caliber revolver, like finding a quarter. To Anthony, “the gun had value.” He kept it.
Even today, in 2008, 60% of homicides still involve guns. Guns are everywhere. Snoop found a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in a dumpster. Now 21, she says
“You can find guns everywhere, in a staircase, anywhere…little kids git their hands on’em.” Snoop considers turning over the shotgun, but visits friends first, “Good program, don’t get me wrong, but they’re everywhere.”
A rare youth turning in a gun seemingly confirms this. David Marshall, 20, sneers, “Turn in all my guns? That’s crazy.”
Many guns are not from the Bronx. Since no IDs are checked, residence is irrelevant for guns. Outside six church drop-off locations, officers are a different species than typical NYPD. Instead of authoritarian black, they are sporting cheerful Ikea blue polos over shorts. Identifying concealed guns is nearly impossible so they invite, “Are you comin’ in?” like restaurant hostesses.
Some guns are clutched lunches in brown paper bags, others shrouded in black plastic bags like cuddled golf clubs. But new ex-gun owners are obvious who emerge flashing envelopes and jackpot smiles. After cashing-in, two hunters in faded camo saunter to their truck. Their snarled teeth and face gristle are punctuated with “We’re smart” smirks. Their muddied pickup pin-balls between shiny double-parked SUVs. The waiting getaway drivers fill the street with thumping theme music, and target the hunters horn blasts, ignoring glances from New York City’s friendliest.
So thirty years later, Anthony, 68, ambles in receiving ticket 722, “colorful pink like a raffle ticket from Coney Island.” Value.
“Economy is bad, c’mon now, people looking for money. No money, no gun.” He notes, “It’s mostly elderly folk like me here, some guns look like they’d never work.” An elderly Latino swaggers by, slicked hair under black cap, gold-rimmed aviators and a sharply waxed mustache, rifle in a custom case. A family exits; teenager follows mom and grandma, a garment bag relieved of grandpa’s rifles. “722,” summons an officer.
The officer pauses at Anthony’s gun as a wine connoisseur after sipping, “That’s reaaaal nice.” He flips open the revolver which has not been fired in 30 years. The gun joins the others becoming scrap, soon with new lives as legal members of society: wire hangers.
Anthony drains his $200 NYPD card, giving half to relatives. “Like I said, I’m not a criminal like those other guys, and times is tough.” $197,400 for 987 guns, plus over $100,000 for staffing costs — the annual salary of nearly 12 rookie cops. Tough times demand wiser investing.
