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…

Sorry to interrupt my Philadelphia Story, but I wanted to post this “Elegy” by poet Theodore Roethke in memory of my friend, Shea, who passed away recently.  I will miss him dearly.

Elegy by Theodore Roethke

1

Should every creature be as I have been,

There would be reason for essential sin;

I have myself an inner weight of woe

That God himself can scarcely bear.

2

Each wills his death: I am convinced of that;

You were too lonely for another fate.

I have myself an inner weight of woe

That Christ, securely bound, could bear.

3

Thus I; and should these reasons fly apart,

I know myself, my seasons, I KNOW.

I have myself one crumbling skin to show;

God could believe: I am here to fear.

4

What you survived I shall believe: the Heat,

Scars, Tempests, Floods, the Motion of Man’s Fate;

I have myself, and bear its weight in woe

That God that God leans down His heart to hear.

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…

Hey there, friends.  I just wanted to write a quick post letting you all know that I plan on starting a new, lengthy tale of woe very soon, but I just started a new, full-time job and have been too busy/sleepy to work on the woe.

This lengthy tale of which I speak will go back to my days in Philadelphia, PA in which one single event turned a relatively routine evening into hours of ridiculousness and disbelief.  So, stay tuned!

Oh, in case you are wondering why I called this post “Seniors in Action,” it’s because the other day I misread a newspaper article entitled “Seniors in Action” as “Seniors in Traction.”  This made me laugh and laugh.  Personally, I think my title is much catchier and would make a kick-ass band name.  Later.

Well, friends, it just occurred to me that I have been running this blog of woe for over one year.  Hooray for me!

Overall, the experience has been a good one, save of course for all the fallout that occurred with my “Epic Woe” series.  I have many (I think) more tales of woe to come and am sure to experience some new woe in the upcoming year that may make good blog material—it’s bound to happen, right?

Anyway, let’s all take a trip down memory lane and visit my first true tale of woe:  Dangerous Turkey.  As you may or may not recall, in this tale I bit into a shard of glass while trying to enjoy some turkey at work.  How the heck did that happen?  Read and find out!

Until next time… 

While I have many and various musical tastes, one of my more guilty pleasures is listening to heavy metal.  I owe this influence to my younger brother, who even in his adolescence was already listening to classic metal acts like Metallica, Black Sabbath, and Slayer.

This tale happened one weekend while I was away at college and my brother was still living with our parents and attending a Catholic high school in central Pennsylvania…

One Saturday morning, my dad was using the computer, which used to be located in my parents’ finished basement.  It was early enough that morning that my dad had not yet put on shoes and was clicking away at the computer while his bare feet rested on the carpet under the desk.

Suddenly, my dad then felt something scratch at his toes.  But when he looked down at his feet, he saw nothing.  Moments later, the scratching sensation returned.  This time, when my dad looked down, he saw that one of his toes was slightly bleeding .  And next to his foot sat a mouse.  The mouse had been nibbling at his toes.

After informing my mom and my brother of what had just happened in the basement, my dad suggested setting a mouse trap.  My brother, however, always gentle and caring when it comes to animals, proposed to catch the mouse himself, without harm, and then release it at the nearby park.

My brother made quick work of setting up barriers in the basement, therefore cornering the mouse without harming it.  He then put the mouse in a small box and made way to his car.

Now, this is where the metal comes in.  My brother, at the time, was particularly fond of Slayer and would listen to their music at earsplitting volume in his car at all times.  So, my brother put the mouse-in-the-box on the passenger seat, cranked the Slayer, and drove off to the park to release the mouse.

But when my brother reached the park and opened the box, he learned that sometime in the few minutes it took to reach the park the mouse had died.  What had happened?  He concluded that the most probable cause of death was heart attack caused by the sudden and jarring sounds of Slayer.

That’s right, faithful readers, heavy metal apparently has the ability to kill small rodents.  Death by metal.  What a way to die.

I only own one suit.  This isn’t really a problem since I don’t wear suits that often.  But just in case I, say, have to wear said suit on consecutive or near-consecutive occasions (e.g. a second job interview), I have a few different shirts and ties that go well with the suit, as to give the appearance of different outfits.

Unfortunately, I bought the suit, the shirts, and the ties a few years ago when I was looking for work.  Apparently, since then, I have put on some weight.  Sure, I was aware of my weight gain before I put on the suit, but I wasn’t aware of which body parts had increased in size since the weight gain.

I had a job interview to go to a few weeks ago, so I pulled out my trusty suit and fancy shirts and started to get dressed.  The shirt felt a little snug around the old stomach region, but this wasn’t much of a surprise.  What surprised me was that I couldn’t for the life of me button the very top button.  You know, the button at the collar.  I couldn’t fasten it, couldn’t get it through that lousy hole.  Apparently, my neck is fatter than it used to be.

When you put on pants that are a little too small in the waist, you can suck in your gut.  No problemo.  But I soon learned that you can’t really suck in your neck.  Very difficult if not impossible to do.  So, I fought with this button (I thought about leaving it undone behind the tie knot, but then I worried I would look like a slob).  I had to try and then retry getting the dumb thing fastened.  I had to take breaks in between attempts.  It was ridiculous.

Finally, I buttoned the button.  Yes, the collar was a little snug, but damn, I looked good.

The following story is one that I’ve been recounting to my friends lately, so I figured I would add it here.  It came into my mind for the first time in many years for reasons unknown…

From ages sixteen through eighteen, while attending high school in central Pennsylvania, I worked at a multiplex movie theater.  I began my illustrious career at the theater, or theatre as the marquee said, as an usher.  I tore your tickets, I cleaned up your messes, and I pocketed any and all loose currency I found on the sticky theater floors.  It was a decent job for a high school junior.

I also met my first girlfriend at the theater.  She was a co-worker of mine from a different high school.  Our relationship ended disastrously as I think I mentioned previously in another tale, but at the time, things were swell.

At some point in time, a new usher was hired.  This usher, however, was different from the rest of us.  His name was Peter.  Peter was about 40 I would say, with brown and balding hair, and brilliant blue eyes.  He was also, unfortunately, confined to an electric wheelchair and was mentally slow.  His speech was quiet and mumbley; and his hands were unsteady when he tore the tickets, which was all his job required—none of the cleaning duties were ever given to Peter.

Peter always had a man helping him out.  I don’t remember the man’s name, but I remember him pulling me aside one day and telling me Peter’s tragic story: Peter was a normal child until about the age of ten when he was struck by a car and left with irreparable brain damage.  It was hard not to feel sorry for Peter.

Peter, at first, was reserved and said little.  But as time passed, he became more comfortable with us employees and would tease us and joke around.  He also liked to talk up the female workers.  Not in a creepy way, but in a sweet, complimentary fashion.

One day, according to my then girlfriend Audrey, Peter was talking to her.  Their conversation went something like this:

“You look nice today,” Peter said.

“Thank you, Peter.  That’s nice of you to say.”  Audrey said.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” she said.  “You know him.  He works here.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know, Mike.”  And Audrey described me to Peter.

Then, unbelievably, Peter said, “Oh, him?  You can do much better!”

Ouch.