Expiration Date

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See that body sprawled on the hardwood floor, marinating in a pool of his own blood?

That’s me.

Five minutes ago I was shot in the back. Three times, right between the shoulder blades. The guy who runs the late-night beer bodega downstairs, Willie Shahid, heard the shots—bang bang bang—then saw somebody with a revolver go shuffling down Frankford Avenue. After a few minutes, he walked upstairs to check it out.

Now Willie’s outside the apartment door. He knocks, and then waits a second. Something’s not right. He sniffs the air; the acrid scent of chalk and burnt paper fills his nostrils. Gunpowder. It’s not an unfamiliar scent to Willie Shahid. Not in this neighborhood.

Watch Willie Shahid take out his cell and dial 911, giving the proper address and even the floor. Guy’s a real pro.

If you hang around a little longer, you’ll see the EMTs arrive, and then the Philly PD, 15th District. They’ll move me to a stretcher and carry me out the front door of the building, under the rumbling El train and past a bunch of dudes in oversized white T-shirts and deadpan expressions.

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