Chicken | Teen Ink


August 31, 2011
By Anonymous

“You know what would be the s***?” That’s how our games start. Sometimes, one of us will say that line on purpose, sometimes, it will be an honest suggestion. We always ask what, we can’t help ourselves. Then the stupid dare will be told. This is chicken, the game of reckless stunts and near death experiences. People play it elsewhere, but they are “sissy’s” compared to what we do. “You know what would be the s***?” I asked one day.

“What?” Came the immediate response.

“If someone went and stole that cop’s gun.” It’s a dream for all Boston kids, stealing one of the many infamous BPD officer’s guns. But the idea, being so deliciously stupid, was never suggested, not once, in the history of chicken. The group all looked at me strangely. First, as if I was crazy, and second, like they couldn’t believe they would have to steal a cop’s gun. If they didn’t they were chicken. “It’s ok, I’ll do it.” I told them, almost truthfully, I would need some convincing first. It wasn’t like we were in downtown Boston, or Dorchester, where the cops always held a hand on their gun. He was a detail cop directing traffic. What did he even need a gun for? He wouldn’t miss it. “We need a distraction.” Brian offered. “We can’t just send you in there to get slaughtered.” What type of distraction? The oldest distraction in the book. One where someone pretends to be injured. I suggested they just pretend to have a fist fight, a cop would come running for that, we were in Cambridge after all, the place where all the gangs from all over the city went to resolve their differences. The cop would be on that in a second. “But he would bring out his gun.” I was told. Whatever, it was all the same to me. I tried to back out for a second at this point. My dad and his friends had pulled a similar stunt back in the 60’s, and one of them got shot by another cop on duty. But I was the only one who could do it. They decided that I had the quickest fingers and the most innocent face. Brian faithfully stepped out in traffic for me. People are psycho drivers by that intersection, so in a few seconds, someone clipped him. They had seen him and slammed their foot on the brake, but not fast enough. He would be ok, hopefully. The cop looked up, taking a surprisingly long time considering he was supposed to be on top of things. I swiftly walked by as he walked over. My hand was stretched out, my fingers clenched around the barrel. I had it in my hand, I walked back a step to be able to lift it in time, and I almost got it to. He looked at me just then. I… Ran… I booked it! And I didn’t stop running until I got to harvard square. Out of breath and paranoid as hell, I sat down outside the train station. They called my cell phone and told me they got the whole stunt on tape and as we were talking, it was getting numerous hits on youtube. I politely told them to go f*** themselves. “Ain’t no one who plays chicken like us Boston boys.” Brian said. And yes, that was true. We are the masters of daring each other to do stupid things.

The author's comments:
"Aint no one who plays chicken like us Boston boys."

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Speaks

Smith Summer

Wellesley Summer