The teenagers arrived at the restaurant in Montgomery, Ala., bright-eyed, chatty and ready to grill. But as the conversation turned to the events of a recent Saturday night, their demeanor quickly shifted.
At school, online and in their neighborhoods, everyone was talking about the explosion of gunfire downtown on Oct. 4, blocks from the marble steps of the State Capitol. Two people were killed, including a 17-year-old, and 12 others were injured, many of whom were under the age of 20. The police charged two teenagers and one 21-year-old with capital murder and another teenager with attempted murder. Once again, young people were at the center of gun violence in the city.
A familiar pattern followed, of anguished pastors pleading for the violence to stop, of officials considering a citywide curfew for minors. Gov. Kay Ivey, a Republican, ordered state troopers to expand their patrol zone. And Mayor Steven L. Reed rejected calls for the National Guard to be deployed, as they have been in other cities, even as he empathized with alarmed parents.
Two of the young workers at the restaurant, called That’s My Dog Jr., had witnessed the shooting. But they knew that none of the solutions would get at what they believed was the heart of the issue — a lack of opportunities in town.
“There’s no money down here,” said one worker, Jay Ware, 17, who was downtown with a friend and a mentor when shots rang out that Saturday night. “It’s just a whole lot of violence.”
Many of the victims and perpetrators of violence in Montgomery are young people who have easy access to guns. Their involvement in gangs, experts said, is rooted in a number of factors, including a roughly 20 percent poverty rate that has persisted since 2020, a lack of good-paying jobs, failing schools and a yearning to quickly make money.
In the first half of this year, Montgomery saw a 13 percent decrease in homicides. But residents say the issue of gun violence still feels as potent as ever.
That’s My Dog Jr. aims to put a dent in that persistent problem. Since opening in 2019, the white-brick restaurant with its signature colorful entrance has been entirely staffed by teenagers through the nonprofit That’s My Child. It gives them a place to earn a check, and perhaps find community, so they are not drawn toward crime.
An adult in an adjacent building only occasionally monitors them through security cameras. But daily operations are up to the kids, including training new hires to make their charred hot dogs and special brown crispy chicken with secret sauce.
“We may be a small part of the solution, but for these kids it’s not just about a job,” said Charles Lee, the nonprofit’s founder. Mr. Lee, 43, said he used to sell drugs and commit robberies when he was younger and part of a gang, desperate to help his impoverished family bring in money.
“We cater to teenagers who may be stuck in a similar environment,” he said. “They find community, they’re friends. They don’t talk about how to make money but how to spend what they earned.”
During a recent shift, the young crew put on their T-shirt uniforms, fixed their hairnets and got ready for service. (They are open from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m. so they have time for homework.)
They mixed chili cheese with a spatula. They dunked Oreos in a creamy batter before frying them. And they held back laughter when they saw one co-worker trying to slice onions with a paring knife.
“Hey man, I swear I’m crying right now,” said Zavian Milliner, 16, using his wrist to wipe his eyes.
“Sheesh,” said Felics Carter, 15, trying to contain his tears. “This stings!”
Their manager, Makhia Sankey, a fiery 16-year-old with red hair and silver braces, was not impressed. “You got to know what you’re doing when you’re cutting them,” she said, surprised by the small collection of vegetables that had been sliced so far.
They were nine entrepreneurial teenagers saving up for first cars, trips to the nail salon and fake gold chains, searching for solace and laughs inside a ketchup-colored kitchen. In their nine weeks working together, they had fostered “a cool energy” and a “good vibe,” they said, all while earning $10 to $13 an hour from Monday to Thursday. Some of them help their parents financially by paying for school expenses.
Most teenagers at the restaurant, which returns proceeds to the nonprofit, work a full nine-week stint before transitioning to work at another place, like Chick-fil-A. Adult mentors train them on how to prepare for job interviews and help them set up bank accounts. A handful extend their stay at the restaurant to become managers.
They took pride in their work and in their 97 out of 100 health score rating. But there was still plenty of time for antics.
“If somebody gave you a million dollars, would you put your hand down there?” Jay asked his friend Chanelly Cunningham, 16, pointing at a vat of bubbling-hot vegetable oil.
Nope, Chanelly replied.
“That’s enough to buy you a new hand!” Jay said.
Between making orders, they talked about their dream careers, like joining the military, training to be a truck driver or becoming a forensic scientist. They debated who was the best rapper in Montgomery. On breaks, the boys played basketball on a makeshift court behind the restaurant. In the kitchen, they talked about possibly renting an Airbnb in the city to have a pajama party, maybe around Halloween.
In many ways, they were typical American teenagers dipping their toes into the work force. But the gun violence pervading their community had also seeped into their lives. Summer Dixon, a 15-year-old cashier, said she was used to hearing gunshots when trying to finish homework at night. Zavian remembered his close friend from sixth grade who was walking home from school four years ago when a stray bullet struck his chest, killing him.
Zavian’s grandmother, who had raised him all his life, had tried to console him. She had seen other people his age be pulled into criminal activity, so here he was at That’s My Dog Jr., wanting to make her proud.
“Feels like everywhere we go,” he said, “there’s always a shootout.”
It was 6:43 p.m., almost closing time. The crew picked up trash, cleaned the grill and scrubbed dishes. As Chanelly mopped the floors, he finally brought up the downtown shooting that he had seen up close with Jay. It happened while families waited in line to ride a new Ferris wheel and people barhopped nearby.
“I thought Jay got hit,” Chanelly said quietly. “I couldn’t see him.”
He told them how he had repeatedly screamed, “Where’s Jay?”
“What happened?” Zavian asked him.
“Somebody started shooting,” Jay recalled. “Boom. Boom. So I ducked down and tried to see where the noise is at.”
He shared with the group how he had run toward a corner to hide. “I thought the killer was coming my way,” Jay said.
But he kept certain details to himself: how he heard people crying on the ground, shot and bleeding; how he saw others carrying guns, running; how he wasn’t sure whether to freeze or keep moving.
Zariyah Murrell, 16, flashed the fake colorful money, similar to arcade tokens, that the nonprofit had given them to use at the Alabama National Fair that weekend. They had decided not to go on an earlier date, nervous that a retaliatory shooting might break out.
“I hope y’all don’t hear, ‘Bah! Bah! Bah!’” she said, mimicking the sound of gunfire.
She was kidding. But the crew stayed quiet and finished cleaning. Jay, who Makhia referred to as their M.V.P. employee, volunteered to take out the trash.
He loved the friends he had made at the restaurant. His father was proud of him, he said, “for staying out of the streets.” He was inching closer toward his goals of one day leaving Montgomery and finding financial success. After his friends’ rides home arrived, he sat at a table and thought of the victims his age who have been killed in shootings.
“They have people who love them,” he said.
An adult from the nonprofit stopped by to lock up. Jay gathered his things and walked out of the curved entrance of the restaurant, with its rainbow bricks.
“Happy to be alive,” Jay told his friend, before strolling past abandoned buildings and making his way home.
Eduardo Medina is a Times reporter covering the South. An Alabama native, he is now based in Durham, N.C.
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