A Shot Story
Copyright 2015 Fordham University Press
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any otherexcept for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Fordham University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Fordham University Press also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in print may not be available in electronic books.
Visit us online at www.fordhampress.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Borkowski, David.
A shot story : from juvie to Ph.D. / David Borkowski. First edition.
pages cm
Summary: David Borkowski was nearly shot to death during a botched robbery when he was 15. Soon before turning 40, he obtained a Ph.D. in Literature and Rhetoric from the CUNY Graduate School. He is now a Professor of English. A Shot Story describes that journey Provided by publisher.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-8232-6599-2 (hardback)
1. Borkowski, David. 2. Juvenile delinquentsRehabilitationUnited States. 3. Life change eventsUnited States. 4. EducationSocial aspectsUnited States. 5. College teachersUnited StatesBiography. I. Title.
CT275.B58456A3 2015
378.1'2092dc23
[B]
2015002949
Printed in the United States of America
17 16 15 5 4 3 2 1
First edition
A Grave Situation
T he human body contains about seven liters of blood. By the time the ambulance arrived, I had lost more than six and a half. When it happened, though, I didnt think they were real bullets. It was a fortunate fallacy, really. Im convinced my ignorance kept me alive long enough to reach the hospital to receive last rites before the all-night surgery that saved me. What you dont know cant kill you, but its really no way to live.
In my mind, I figured he was firing rubber bullets. Or, more likely, he was shooting at me with a salt gun, the kind of weapon my friends and I believed the nighttime rent-a-cops carried while patrolling Moravian Cemetery, where we sometimes got high. It was located at the intersection of New Dorp and Oakwood Heights on Staten Island. Cornelius Vanderbilts colossal tomb, erected on a finely groomed hilltop, was situated a quarter of a mile behind the rest of the cemetery. The largest private tomb in the United States, it was five times the size of the homes that most of us lived in. Landscaping legend Frederick Law Olmsted designed its grounds. The rest of the cemetery covered more than one hundred pristine acres. If we didnt feel like walking up to Vanderbilts at night, we would hang out in the cemetery, leaning against the headstones or parading through the infinite rows of graves. Everything was meticulously managed; barely a single weed grew beside any burial site. Ancient elms and oaks lined winding roads that went to other, less impressive mausoleums. A decent-sized human-made lake anchored the entire place. It was truly a magnificent place to be dead.
Lots of kids went there to fish, play exhausting games of hide-and-seek, and get stoned, on weed, acid, cheap beer, sickly sweet wine, or all of the above. Some shot heroin, although I didnt realize that at the time. A few kids wandered around so stoned they resembled zombies. I suspect now that some of the living dead were having sex in the bushes, although I didnt realize that at the time either. Other kids simply went there because it was somewhere to go, something to do, a juvenile delinquent field trip of sorts.
This was especially true when one took the long uphill hike through wooded terrain that went directly to Vanderbilts tomb. Taking the path avoided passage through the main cemetery grounds, where the chances of getting caught during the day were likely. During daylight hours hardly a soul hung out there. The Tomb, as everyone called it, was the daytime destination. It seemed kids from all over the area knew where, on a dead-end street, to find the hole in the fence that protected the cemetery from trespassers. Past it, a rather steep path that wended its way through the woods led to a second fence that surrounded the tomb. That one had to be scaled. Once you were inside, it was pretty easy, as long as you didnt suffer from vertigo, for anyone to climb onto the tombs roof from the back by slowly walking on all fours like an ape along the slanted surface toward the front. You could then sit safely and comfortably at its peak by straddling its extravagant cornice. From there you could see the Atlantic Ocean and much of Staten Islands South Shore, as well as look down on the countless dead buried in the valley below and those paying their respects to them.
Everyone knew not to be afraid of the cops, who came out only at night. They were fake cops carrying fake weapons loaded with fake ammunition. Reputedly, the function of their salt guns went something like this: When fired at their target, they slowly immobilized the person. At first they created a slow-mo effect on the victim if he were running, causing increasing paralysis, until he finally collapsed onto the ground, rendered completely incapacitated by the salts effect on the bloodstream. However, the cops rarely, if ever, bothered coming up to the tomb, many of them finding it too creepy in the first place. Second, it was virtually impossible for the cops to do anything more than make us take flight into the surrounding brush when they showed up (we could see the oncoming headlights long before they arrived), only for us to resurface and reclaim the territory once theyd left. Sometimes we didnt need to hide because they frequently didnt unlock the fence to get a better look at who was around. As long as they could report that theyd gone up to the tomb, I guess they could say they had done their nights work. What they did do mostly was drive aimlessly around the cemetery grounds below, perhaps even getting high like the rest of us, a prospect that was quite scary. Stoned-out males performing thankless, boring jobs can be a volatile lot, itching to pop off their pieces, even if they are only fake guns.
Mind you, none of us ever saw any of these guns, let alone one discharged using Morton Salt bullets. But neither did anyone want to put the rumor to a test and get shot at. Thats why whenever we were in the cemetery instead of at the tomb we scattered like rats through the rows of gravestones if we saw an approaching vehicle. If you see these half-assed Barney Fifes, wed tell each other, duck behind a tombstone. And dont move. You know theyre too terrified and too lazy to get out of the car and give chase, so theyll probably pretend that they never saw you. Whatever you do, dont run. Then its like sport to these assholes, like theyre hot-shot safari hunters who shoot Wilma beasts or whatever the fuck it is safari hunters shoot from their jeeps. Thats when theyll spray you with those salt guns. So be cool.
And thats the conversation that was inside my head the night a real cop with a real gun with real bullets shot me. I wasnt in the cemetery, so I guess I should have figured otherwise. But I was fifteen years old, so what did I know? And unlike in the cemetery, there were no tombstones to hide behind, so when he yelled, Freeze, you assholes, I did at first. I didnt want to be a sacrificial Wilma beast for his amusement. Dougie and I had been hiding behind a boulder in an empty, unkept lot across the street from the house where the driver was making his delivery. We had called earlier to order a pizza to be sent to that address, just as we had done twice before at that same address (really dumb), and just as we had done the first time at another address. As soon as he stepped out of the car, wed rob himme holding a water pistol spray-painted black and Dougie clutching a knife hed grabbed from his mothers kitchen drawer. But when we charged out of the lot toward him, it was evident he wasnt some pimply-faced college kid as had been the case the other times.