From my blog:
I was walking past the Copa Banana at 40th & Spruce St., two blocks
from me, around 1 am this morning. Suddenly this HUGE (tall and
round) man with a white t-shirt that ended around his knees came
flying out of one of the side doors, nearly knocking me to the
ground. The door almost came off its hinges. He was holding his
crotch of his pants (which could have been nowhere near his actual
crotch) with both hands and he ran behind me towards the corner. The
40th St. side of the place is a row of glass doors and I slowed down
to see what was going on. Some people tried to pull the door shut but
the bottom got stuck and the door looked really bent.
I could see through the glass that there were a couple of guys
violently holding someone in a red plaid shirt down/back against the
bar. He was really struggling to get away. Then the guy who almost
knocked me down, ran back up the two steps, pulled the door open and
went back inside, mumbling. He pushed past some women and knocked
over a table on his way across the room. He ended up standing in
front of the plaid shirt man, screaming and gesturing wildly. At this
point, some patrons, mostly women, began leaving though the side
doors, screaming things like, “I’m getting out of here before they
start shooting!” And, believe me, they were GONE! Great. I just stood
there gaping like a moron, all 5' 4" of me, with my Fresh Grocer
shopping bag in one hand, the other hand popping Mega M&M's into my
mouth. I must have looked like Norman Bates and his peanuts only not
as nervous. I could only have appeared more stupid if I had been
yapping on my cell phone.
I glanced north on 40th St and saw a UCD “Safety Ambassador”
sauntering up the street, walking her bicycle, maybe 30 feet from the
rather noisy melee. Then two very large and very cute bouncers
forcefully escorted the guy in the plaid shirt out the door. He kept
yelling, “I’m gonna air you out!” (I think), whatever that means, as
he backed south on 40th St. One of the bouncers said “Go ahead!”
while gesturing with his little taser wand thing. By the time the UCD
woman got it together to put her radio to her lips, there was already
a Penn Police car backing down the street. The “perp” had taken off
his plaid shirt and was walking at a normal pace towards Pine St. The
bouncer told the Police,“ It’s him. The guy in the white t-
shirt,” (so much for the costume change and trying to blend in with
an empty street). They nabbed him before he got to the corner.
I couldn’t make out what the officers were saying to him but I could
hear his responses from across the street. The gist of it seemed to
be that he was trying to pick up some women (“bitches”) and he was
cock-blocked in some manner by some men (“motherfuckers” and also
“bitches”). The officers began to pat him down—he seemed cooperative,
if a bit mouthy—and a Penn Police SUV pulled up beside them. I kept
walking. “Show’s over, folks. Move along.”
Call me old-fashioned, but it seems to me that talking to the police
using language and gestures learned from hip-hop videos isn’t the
best way to garner sympathy and get them to listen. (There’s a
wonderful line well-delivered by Justin Timberlake in Alpha Dog, “The
only thing those guys ever shot was a video.” Hilarious, and the
whole movie really, in a delicious bite-size chunk.) When I was
arrested I was all “Yes, officer. No, officer. Thanks for the cold
fried egg sandwich, officer.” and “Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor.”
Is that really so hard? I mean, I could tell right away that,
whatever I had to say, true or not, the cops had heard it a million
times before, so I’d better just shut it. Watching and listening,
first to the people around me in the holding cell and then to my
incessantly chattering overnight cell-mate and our immediate
neighbors, gave me new respect for law enforcement officers. I don’t
know how they stand it. I guess that’s just one of many reasons I’m
typing this at home instead of San Quentin. That and my bringing-
upski. Thanks Mom (and Stephen Sondheim)!
I have noticed that Penn students have kind of abandoned the Copa
this year. Last year, I swear, it was packed with students every
night of the week. Then, during the summer, the patrons were more
neighborhood folks. Im not sure if incidents like this one are the
cause or the result or neither. Maybe it was a one-off. I do know I
don’t like it. (The Copa is the closest good burger to me and I
really don’t want to be dodging bullets while I eat dead cow on a
roll and spanish fries.) No, I haven’t fallen for UCD’s “clean and
safe” fantasy either; this isn’t that shocking to me. On the other
hand, I was just standing there staring in just the kind of situation
in which bullets fly in Philly far too often these days, staring
blankly like it was on television. Maybe the summer of Dick Donato
has numbed me to physical as well as psychological violence.
I guess I’ll be calling UCD for a Safety Ambassador to walk me and my
M&M's home from now on. I’m really dreading it, not only because I
walk to the Wawa nearly every night, but because I hate making small
talk with strangers. (Really. That’s why I stopped going to barbers.)
Maybe I’ll pretend to be deaf!
I’m listening to “I Don't Want to Hear it Anymore” from Dusty in
Memphis by Dusty Springfield.
Frankus
Sleek. Edgy. Infinitely flexible.
