Thread by @devoninMENA

#Silly Story Thread: Little India, the FBI, and Machine Gun

In the mid to late aughts, I worked at a small community center and book store in the heart of Chicago’s Little India.

(By a funny coincidence, this neighborhood was on Devon Avenue!)

If you have never been to Little India on Chicago’s north side, it is hard to convey your feeling when you step off the bus and are suddenly and shockingly transported from the urban midwest to the subcontinent.

The smell of spice fills the air, and chaat restaurants and sari shops line the streets. The sounds of street traffic punctuate the various dialects and languages of Sri Lankans, Bangladeshis, Indians, and Pakistanis.

Even though it had been several years since the 9/11 attacks, the neighborhood was still recovering from the mass deportations that had taken place in the aftermath.

I also remember at least two times when I was sitting at the front desk of the community center when FBI agents would enter and leave their business cards with me and ask us to call if we saw anything suspicious.

I would assure them that we would, but the cards would end up deep in the recesses of the desk’s many drawers, and in any case, I never dreamed I would have an occasion to call.

How wrong I was!

One morning, an older man walked in as I was opening up the center. He had a long white beard and wore more traditional Islamic clothing. I thought perhaps he had newly immigrated from Pakistan. “Can I help you, uncle-ji?” I asked as I poured him a cup of chai.

He hesitated, and I thought I would try a different language, but he quietly said, “I would like to make some copies.”

“Ah,” I said, looking at the massive and ancient copy machine in the corner and the large stack of sheets in his hand. “I can definitely make copies for you, but it will take at least ten minutes to turn on and warm up the copy machine.

Would you be able to wait?” He seemed to be weighing the question more earnestly than I expected.

“I need to get to work. I don’t think I can wait.”

“If you like,” I suggested, “I can make the copies for you, and you can pick them up after work.” I thought that this seemed like an excellent solution to the problem, but he did not look happy about the prospect of leaving the papers with me.

I immediately switched on the copy machine so that he could see just how long it took to get started. After about five minutes of watching different lights flicker, he left the papers with me.

“These are very important,” he said. “Please ensure that they are in order and that you do not lose any.”

“I will be careful, I promise,” I assured him.

Minutes after he left, the copy machine creaked to life. I thought it was best to get started on the task right away. I carefully straightened the stack of papers to feed them into the machine tray.

Most of the first few pages were handwritten in Urdu. I knew a bit of conversational Urdu to get by, but I was pretty awful at reading. This might be good practice for me, I thought. Besides, I wanted to ensure I kept all the pages in their proper order.

I would pick one word on each page to read.

After copying a few pages, I got to a page with some English written on it. There, in block capital letters, was the word MACHINE GUN. That stopped me in my tracks. What in the world? What was written in Urdu next to it? I sounded it out slowly, “Art Institut.” What?

Why was the word MACHINE GUN next to the famous Art Institute of Chicago? I wasn’t confident that I had correctly sounded out the Urdu, and I certainly didn’t think I could decipher the vital context-giving first few pages written entirely in Urdu.

I flipped through the following several pages. There were several famous Chicago landmarks with the ominous MACHINE GUN written next to them. What should I do? Should I try to find a friend to translate the cover pages?

I certainly didn’t want the man to be subject to neighborhood gossip, especially if the pages were harmless. But what if these were plans for mass shootings? Should I call the police?

Suddenly, I remembered the FBI business cards and ran to the front desk to see if I could find one. After a few minutes of excavation, I unearthed the card.

With adrenaline pumping, I called the number, sure the man would show up any minute and ask for his copies.

I quickly explained my situation to the person who answered the phone. They transferred me to a different person, and I explained the problem again. “Well, perhaps just fax me over a few of the pages,” said the agent I assumed was now handling the situation.

“Anything I should do when the man comes back?” I asked, imagining I would need to secretly take a photo or some other clandestine assignments. “No, just give him the papers,” the agent said in a rather bored tone.

“Will you call me back to let me know what you find?” I asked, imagining the unbearable tension of not knowing if the dastardly MACHINE GUN plans of uncle-ji had been foiled or not. “We will be in touch.” And with that, the conversation was over.

I continued my copying with very mixed feelings. The FBI didn’t seem to be taking this seriously. I felt foolish that I might be making a mountain out of a molehill. But I also knew that I would never forgive myself if something happened and I hadn’t done anything.

The day stretched out as I waited for the copies to be picked up and for the call from the FBI.

That evening, just before we closed, uncle-ji came back to pick up his copies. One of my coworkers tried unsuccessfully to take a picture of him with her flip phone.

After he left, I kept glancing back at the phone, wondering if I would sleep that night if they didn’t call back before we shut up shop. As we were about to lock the front door, the phone rang. We both ran in, and I picked up the phone with a slightly out-of-breath, “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Agent Patel calling regarding an incident at your place of business. Who am I speaking with?”

“Hi Agent Patel, this is Devon. I called in the incident.” Suddenly, Agent Patel’s tone changed from business to amusement. “Devon, would you say that the man in question could be a taxi driver?”

“Why, yes!” After a second of thought, I said, “He almost certainly is a taxi driver.”

“Would you say that he drops off tourists at places on Michigan Avenue?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Michigan Avenue?” He repeated.

“Yes...” I answered, confused.

Then he said, in a thick Desi accent, “MACHINE GUN Avenue?” I took a sharp breath as I realized what had happened. These handwritten notes were study guides for taxi drivers regarding where different Chicago landmarks were located. The Art Institute was on Michigan Avenue!

Michigan sounded almost exactly like MACHINE GUN to the new immigrants, so that was the mnemonic device they used to remember.

Relief washed over me, and I laughed and laughed. The FBI agent laughed with me. I thanked him for letting me know. Now, whenever I see the word “Michigan” in the wild, I whisper, “MACHINE GUN” to myself and chuckle. Now you can, too.

The End.