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…