Here’s a fresh tale of woe for all you out there in Internet land…

So, less than one hour ago, I went on my lunch break, and I drove to a nearby Mexican eatery just down the road from where I work.  The parking lot was full, save for one available parking space.  I went to pull into said parking space, but just as I decided to do so, some tall, attractive blonde girl, who was talking on her cell phone, decided to stand in the middle of the available space.  I waited a moment or two before she finally realized she was standing in my way.

I got out of the car and headed toward the restaurant’s door.  But, the blonde girl, who was still on her phone, stood oblivious in front of the doorway, blocking me.  I stepped to the left; she also coincidentally stepped to the left.  I stepped to the right; she stepped to the right, her back still toward me.  Was I engaged in a dance step I was not aware of?  Finally, she moved out of the way, and I stepped inside.

I ordered my usual, a chicken burrito, and then sat at a table to wait for my food.  The blonde was behind me in line (she was off the phone, finally), and she ordered and then sat as well.

I listened for my number to be called, but didn’t hear it.  I saw the blonde girl get up and get her food.  That’s weird, I thought.  I figured I would have gotten my food first.  A few minutes later, another number was called.

“Oh my God,” the blonde girl said, “I took someone else’s food.”

I assumed she was eating my burrito, well, just because.  I went up to the counter.

“Your chicken burrito will be up soon,” an employee told me, “someone else took it.”

Figured.  So, I waited a few more minutes before I got my food.

I sat at my table and took a bite.  My burrito tasted strange.  I looked down and saw that they had given me a steak burrito instead of a chicken burrito.

Screw it, I said to myself, and went on eating.

When I was younger, I collected baseball cards, and whenever I was in a place other than Mechanicsburg, I always sought out new baseball card stores to visit.

My grandmother lives in Lancaster, PA, and on one occasion when I couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old, my family and I stopped by her place for a visit.  For some reason—maybe it was a holiday or something—many of my relatives were also visiting my grandparents that afternoon.  The group of us was so large, I remember, that we had to eat in the basement instead of the dining room.

Now, my grandmother is an excellent cook.  She was born in southern Italy, and to this day, her gnocchi is my favorite food.  As a youngster, I had a sensitive stomach, but I had never had an adverse reaction to my grandmother’s food, though I usually only ate her pasta and not the cooked meats.  On this occasion, however, I decided to eat some kind of beef she had made.  It was delicious, and I remember that it had slivers of what I think were grilled onions in it, which I wasn’t sure if you were supposed to eat or not, but I ate anyway.

After our big mid-day meal, I talked my Dad into taking me to a nearby baseball card store.  Before we left my grandmother’s house, I remember two things: My Dad’s younger cousins were fighting over who got to use their new BB gun first, and my stomach had begun to bother me.

My Dad and I pulled up to the baseball card store and went inside.

“Dad,” I said, “my stomach hurts.”

I don’t remember what my Dad said to this, but he probably wasn’t too concerned because complaints about my stomach were typical.

At one point, while I was standing next to my Dad, I pulled on his sleeve—he was talking to the salesman about some aluminum trashcans emblazoned with the Phillies’ logo I think—and told him again that my stomach really hurt.  He told me to be quiet.  Part of my memory says that he even went so far as to put his hand in front of my mouth to get me to shush.  In any case, I remember with great clarity what happened next: I barfed all over the floor.

Now I had everyone’s attention.  My Dad told me to go outside while the salesman told his co-worker to get a vacuum.

I went outside by the sidewalk and continued to barf.  I threw up all over some leafy plants.  I threw up on my shoes as well.  My barf was pink in color and I saw the bits of grilled unions in there.  I threw up with such force that the vomit came out of my nose and my mouth simultaneously.  I have never thrown up so forcefully in my life.  A mother and her two kids walked by, aghast.  They quickened their pace away from me, the human barf machine.

Eventually, I stopped throwing up and went back inside the store.  I remember that I purchased an old Willie Stargell card and went home, my Dad and I thoroughly embarrassed I’m sure.

So, I did manage to get a baseball card out of the whole ordeal, but even that satisfaction wouldn’t last, as when I got back to Mechanicsburg, I somehow managed to accidentally sit on the baseball card and it got a big crease in it, thus rendering it worthless.  The End.

My friends were away for the weekend, and they put me in charge of checking in on and feeding their two cats.  I did this twice a day.  I had watched them in the past, without incident…

Sunday night, I drove to my friends’ house.  The two cats, a female named Charlie and a male named Vinny, greeted me at the door as usual, both meowing in anticipation of being fed.  The male cat, Vinny, was especially vocal that evening, which I assumed meant that he was extra hungry.

Now, Vinny is extra enthusiastic toward feeding, so much so that he has taken to bullying the other cat  to steal her food.  Because of this, I had to separate the two felines for feeding time.  I gave Charlie her food in the extra bedroom and shut the doors.  Vinny meanwhile had already devoured his food and was meowing and following me around, looking for more.

“Quiet, you little piglet!” I said.

While waiting for Charlie to finish her food—she’s a slow eater—I decided to use the bathroom.  Now, the bathroom at my friends’ place has two doors.  One was already closed, as to allow Charlie to eat her food in peace.  I entered the bathroom through the other door, but when I went to close the door, I looked down and saw that Vinny, still hot on my heels for food, had joined me in the bathroom.

No big deal, I thought.  I stood by the toilet, unzipped, and started my business (Number 1).

Suddenly, Vinny darted between my legs and popped his head up to look into the toilet.

“Vinny! No!” I exclaimed.

Too late.  The cat had stuck its head directly into my stream of urine.  I stopped urinating as quickly as possible, but the cat still got sprayed.  As quickly as Vinny had appeared, he darted away and ran out of the bathroom.

I continued my business, laughing the entire time, waiting to finish so I could call my friends and tell them that I had just peed on their cat’s head.

The final installment of my Philadelphia Story.  To start at part I, click here.

At the police station, I called my parents on a pay phone and told them what had happened and that I needed the credit card information in order to cancel the cards I had just lost.  Ryan, Hank, and I then waited to give our statements to the detective.  The detective called me in first.

I sat in a chair in a cubicle next to a desk.  The detective introduced himself and then we got down to business.  He sat in front of his computer, took down my information, and then asked what had happened.

The detective was a brown-haired, not-quite-middle-aged man, who was smoking a tiny cigar.  You know, one of those brown cigars with the plastic end that goes in your mouth.  He started typing at his computer, but ashes from his cigar kept falling in his lap.

“God damn it,” he would say each time this happened.

Just put the damn thing in an ashtray!

So, I started my story: “We were walking towards Walnut Street…” but I paused because the detective stepped away from his computer.

“Keep going,” he said.

So I kept going.  But when I finished my story, the detective sat at his computer once again and said:

“Ok, so you were walking towards Walnut Street.”

Good grief.  I had to tell the story again so he could enter it into the computer.  This was taking forever, I thought.  Meanwhile, I heard Hank and Ryan laughing hysterically in the waiting room as they talked to another crime victim.  This guy must have told them a hell of a funny story and, of course, I was missing out on all the fun.

After the detective got my story, he put me in front of a computer to look at mug shots.  I entered different criteria (e.g. approximate age, height, weight, complexion, etc.).  But while I was looking at pictures of men, I saw a few pictures of women.  The detective looked over my shoulder and said:

“Those aren’t women.”

Yikes.  Dudes dressed as girls.  And in mug shots no less.

I couldn’t pick out anyone that looked familiar in the mug shots, so I went back into the waiting area while Ryan and Hank took their respective turns telling their versions of the story.  At one point, while Hank was telling his story and taking a particularly long time to do so, Ryan and I wondered aloud: How can a blind guy tell such a long story about what happened?  Mean perhaps, but it’s what we were thinking then, impatient to go back to Ryan’s apartment and finally call it a night.

After all was said and done, the three of us got a ride back to Ryan’s apartment with another cop in a normal cop car.  One item of particular interest: the back seat was one piece of plastic.  The cop explained that this made it easy to wipe blood and other bodily fluids off the seat.  Also, there was a drain in the bottom of the car, so you could hose the back seat down.  Yikes again.

We drove through Chinatown—don’t ever eat there, the cop warned us, they have rats so big they could steal a baby—chatted with the cop, laughed, and finally ended our mugging ordeal.  A fitting end for Ryan’s last night in Philadelphia.

Now part III of my Philly story.  To start at part I, click here.

An unmarked police car, a blue, American-made four-door, pulled up in a matter of minutes.  Two plain-clothes officers sat in the front seats.  “Get in,” on of them said with urgency.

Ryan and I jumped into the back seat.  Hank struggled with his guitar and gear, and asked the officers if they could open the car’s trunk.  But there was no time for that.  We sped away and left Hank standing at the curb.

“Where did it happen?” the driver asked.  He had his window down and appeared to have a wad of chewing tobacco tucked behind his bottom lip.  He spat brown tobacco juice out the open window.

“I don’t know,” Ryan said.  “Somewhere down this street.  I lost my sandals.”

Moments later we stopped in the middle of the street.  Ryan jumped out and grabbed his sandals from the spot where we were mugged.

“Did they have a gun?” the other officer asked as we continued on.

Before I could say anything, Ryan said, “No, they didn’t.”

How could he be so sure?  I added, “Well, they said they had a gun.”  Ryan gave me a look.

“But they said they had a gun, right?” one officer said.

Ryan conceded that one of the muggers had said he had a gun.

We sped through streets and alleys.  Other marked police cars showed up, criss-crossing paths with our car, sirens wailing, trying to close in on any of the guys that had attacked us.

But too much time had passed.  This was soon clear to all of us in the car.  We soon slowed our pursuit.  We now meandered through the streets at the speed limit, and the cops chatted with one another.  At one point, the officers stopped by a nearby park.  A young couple were seated on a bench, hugging.  The driving officer shined his light on them and told them the park was closed.

The muggers had gotten away; it was painfully obvious at this point.  The cops didn’t seem too surprised, though, and, frankly, neither were Ryan or I.

We drove back to our starting point, picked up Hank, who had been chatting it up with the two guys who called the police, and then made our way to the police station.  Our long night still wasn’t over.

To be continued…

Sorry to interrupt my Philadelphia Story again, but I had to let you all know about my latest tale of woe.

Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?  It has been raining for three days straight here in California at the time this is being written.  Serious rain.  Torrential rain. 

I had the day off.  And I was bored.  Tired of sitting around my apartment and staring at the walls, I decided that the rain wasn’t coming down that hard, and I prepared to venture out into the world.  I got into my car and headed towards the freeway.

Things looked bad, however.  Roads were partially flooded, and everyone was driving slowly or like an idiot.  But I pressed forward.

I got on the freeway and was moving along pretty well; but the rain was coming down in sheets over my windshield, and I had to pay extra close attention to the road ahead of me.  Then I asked myself: What the heck am I doing?  I shouldn’t be driving in this weather.  Nuts to this!

So, I got off the freeway, turned around, and got back on the freeway to head home.  But when I was about to merge—my lane was ending—I saw an ominous object on the road.  It was a fist-sized chuck of black asphalt.  I managed to drive around this mass, but as I did so, I saw up in the distance a pile of fist-sized asphalt chunks.  I didn’t know what to do.  I looked to the lane on my left—there was a car there.  I couldn’t get over.  Behind me some jerk in a pickup on my ass.  I couldn’t brake, either.  So, I forged ahead, toward the pile of debris.

Bam!  My front right tire went in and out of a giant pot hole.  I thought, I sure hope my tire is okay.

Oh, but faithful readers, you know all too well about my many tire troubles!

I didn’t take me long to realize I had a flat.  I pulled over immediately.  I climbed out of my car via the passenger-side door and saw that, yes, my front right tire was flat.  The rain washed over me.  I made quick work to change the tire, but with the rain, the mud and gravel, and the traffic rushing by, it took me about fifteen minutes to put on the spare.

I climbed back in the car, soaked and exhausted, and drove home, where I promptly threw off my wet clothes, hopped in a hot shower, and then, later, drank hot chocolate.  All the while, I was shaking my head in disbelief that yet again I had another tire tale of woe.

Now for part II of my Philadelphia story.  To read part I, click here.

Walk to Walnut Street.  Sounded easy enough.  It was only two or thee blocks away…

The three of us, that is myself, Ryan, and Hank, were walking on the sidewalk on the left side of the street.  Two young men, probably 17-19 in age, walked toward us, coming from the opposite direction we were walking.

“You guys got any change?” one of the boys asked.

“Nope,” Hank and Ryan said.

“I might,” I said, however, and started digging in my pockets while Ryan and Hank continued down the street.

Nope.  No change.  Sorry.  So, I caught up with Ryan and Hank.  And the two young men followed me.  They jumped in front of us.  One of them pulled up his shirt a bit, put his hands down his mesh athletic shorts (they were light blue, I recall) and grabbed something.

“Empty your fucking pockets!” he demanded.  “I got a gun.”

Now, here’s what I thought: Sure, take my money.  I don’t care.  I only have 17 dollars.  It’s yours!  Do you want anything else?  Take my pants if you want them.

Here’s what Ryan and Hank thought, or rather, said and did: Nope.  Can’t have it.  And they kept on walking, putting somewhat of a distance between me, who was in a dumb daze, and them.

Now, here’s where my memory concerning the sequence of events fails me considerably.  It happened so fast!, they always say.  Yes, it all happened very fast…

Ryan threw his beer bottle.  One of the boys punched Ryan square in the ear.  One of the boys drew a knife, a big, shiny hunting-type knife and aimed it at Ryan.  The other boy grabbed Hank’s cane.  “You realize you’re robbing the blind,” Hank said.  Ryan stepped out of his sandals by accident, stumbled, righted himself.  A car, a SUV, drove down the street, headlights burning, stopped, saw our crazed faces (I imagine), and sped off.  I stood rooted to the sidewalk, watching as at least three more young men stepped out of the shadows from a nearby alley.  Oh, shit.  Everyone looked scared, even the muggers.  But where did those  young men from the alley go?  Where were they?  What was happening?

Someone grabbed me from behind and threw my head back.  I realized I now had a knife to my throat.  I had no time to think.  My mind was effectively blank.

“Hand over your wallet,” said a young man standing to my left, barely in my peripheral vision.

The knife still at my throat, I handed over my cash only, as I had heard similar stories of muggers only wanting cash in Philly. 

“No,” the voice said, “your wallet!”

I handed over my wallet; and, as strange as this sounds, my only thought was: Man, what a hassle this is going to be, cancelling all those cards, getting new ID, etc.  The things we think about in extreme situations!

The young men—how many were there?  I don’t know!—they all ran away.  I hardly watched them.  I caught up with Ryan and Hank.

“Let’s go!" Ryan said, panting, all of us walking quickly.  “Fuck calling the police.  Let’s just get a cab and go!”

“But I got my wallet stolen,” I chimed in, weakly.

“Why the fuck did you give it to them?” Ryan asked.

“They had a knife to my throat!” I said, my voice trembling.

“What!?” Ryan said.

We decided to call the police.  We found two men standing on their front steps and demanded they call the police for us.  In a moment, the police would arrive.  But our night was far from over.

To be continued…

I spent four years living in Philadelphia while earning my undergraduate degree in film.  I had lived on campus my first three years, but when my senior year rolled around, I was looking to get off campus and live in the city.

Fortunately, my friend Ryan had just graduated and was looking for someone to sublet his apartment.  I told him I would be happy to move in.  It was a studio apartment around 9th and Pine for those of you familiar with Philly.  Another plus was that Ryan and I had a mutual friend, Hank, who lived in the same building.  Anyway, as I courtesy to Ryan, I offered to help him move out of the apartment and see him on his way to New York City.

I made my way to Philly via a train from Harrisburg, PA.  It was August, I believe.  The plan was to hang out with Ryan and Hank that day/evening, spend the night at Ryan’s place, and then help Ryan move all his stuff into a UHAUL truck the next morning.

I don’t remember what Ryan, Hank, and I did during the day, but I sure as shit remember what happened that night…

The three of us left the apartment building sometime before sundown.  It was a typical Philadelphia summer’s day—bright and searing hot.  We were on our way to a bar—I think it was called South St. Blues or something like that—that held open-mic blues jams on that night of the week.  Hank wanted to sit in and play guitar. 

Digression: I must describe Hank.  All of this is relevant, so bear with me.  Hank was—writing was when describing Hank still stings, as he passed away a few years ago, though not due to anything that happened during this story…Hank was a kind-of larger-than-life figure to me.  First, he was almost ten years older than myself or Ryan.  He was also big.  Over six feet tall and husky.  And he was from Texas.  And he was an English professor.  He was also legally blind.  That was Hank, at least for the purposes of this story. 

So, Hank grabbed his cane, his gig-bagged guitar, and his backpack full of miscellaneous equipment, and the three of us headed to the bar on foot.  First, however, I had to hit up a nearby ATM for beer money.  I took out 40 bucks.  Hank was set and so was Ryan, who if I remember correctly, had upwards of $400 in his wallet, which was tethered to his pants with a chain.  Ryan was also wearing sandals.  Remember these details.

At the bar, we bought a round of beers as Hank sat in with the house band.  Hank was one of the first guys to sit in with the band, and he did a good job all things considered.  As the night wore on, more and more less-talented-than-Hank guitar men showed up to sit in.  Ryan and I, being amateur musicians ourselves, had had our fill.  We were ready to split, especially when some joker with a handlebar moustache showed up wanting to play Allman Brothers songs.  But Hank insisted that we stay, as it would not be courteous for him to ignore the other musicians who had listened to him play. 

Night came fast.  So did last call.  I was left with only ten or so dollars out of my original 40, but I wasn’t drunk.  Neither was Ryan, but he managed to somehow leave the bar with a nearly full bottle of beer in his hand.  Hank grabbed his things and we all started back to the apartment.  The plan was to walk a block or two to Walnut St. and then hail a cab.

That never happened…