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

An unmarked police car, some kind of 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 apparent 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…

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…

In my sophomore year of college I was single.  Just like my freshman year…and my junior year…and my senior year.  Now, this wasn’t for lack of trying, but I just seemed to have bad luck when it came to the ladies during college (or any other time for that matter).  Here’s a typical example…

I met a girl on the train during one of my trips back to Mechanicsburg.  She was my friend’s roommate, and for the life of me, I can’t remember her name (Kathy?  Kate?  Kat?).  Anyway, she was a moderately attractive redhead, who seemed moderately interested in what I had to say during that train ride despite the fact that I was a longhaired, beret-wearing (I wish I were joking), film-student doofus.

I never saw much of this girl after that train ride, except for a few random passing-bys in the dormitory and on campus.  But when the new semester started, I saw her, much to my surprise, in my Eastern Philosophy class.  We would talk occasionally, but not too often because this was an early morning class and she was either usually late, asleep, or absent all together.

One time during the semester, I noticed that she missed two classes in a row.  My brain quickly worked up a plan.  I would approach her after class, ask if she needed notes from the classes she missed, and then maybe work up the nerve to ask her out.

The next time the class met, she was there.  I meant to get her attention after class, but she somehow  exited before I could say anything.  So, I followed her.  Then, just before I got up the nerve to approach her, it happened.  A tall, jock-looking guy in track pants waved at her.  She saw him, smiled, ran into his arms, and planted a big kiss on his lips.  So much for my plans at romance.

Oh, and just for the record, I don’t consider this a total tale of woe only because I luckily managed to avoid asking a girl out who already had a boyfriend, which is much worse.  How do I know?  Because in my lifetime, I’ve managed to ask out three different girls who, unbeknownst to me, were already dating someone.  And that’s much more embarrassing for all involved.

Many thanks to my artist friend A. Declet for contributing the awesome original picture for this blog post…

I rarely go to clubs. In fact, I don’t ever think I’ve initiated a club visit, rather I am usually dragged to a club by one of my female friends much to my chagrin. And I’ll give you one example here of why I don’t like clubs…

Two of my female friends, one of them being my then-ex-girlfriend, came to visit me while I was living in Philadelphia. And I got dragged to a club (the name of said club escapes me). Now, if I were left to my own devices, I would have stood in the darkest corner of the club, the one closest to the exit, and drank beer. My friends, however, wouldn’t stand for such behavior, and they made me dance with them, which I have to admit, wasn’t all bad. Now, I’m no dancer, but I had a decent time getting down, boogying, and cutting a rug with my two female friends.

Then, at the end of the night, a large, African-American gentleman pulled my ex-girlfriend aside and started talking to her. He was obviously some kind of bodybuilder, wearing a tight-fitting white shirt with a giant silver cross on his necklace, his muscles bulging. In other words, his physical appearance was the exact opposite of mine: short, skinny, white, and generally secular.

Anyway, after my ex-girlfriend removed herself from conversation with this large gentleman, I asked her what he had said to her.

“Oh,” she said. “He asked me who I was here with, and I pointed to you.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Him? Man, that’s so messed up!’”

Yeah, I don’t like clubs.