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…

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…