Forty years ago, I was living in Boston. One evening I decided to head to the Italian North End for supper. On my way down the street, I ran into Jim Smith, a friend of sorts who washed windows for a living.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I’m heading up to the North End for some Italian food.”
“Yeah? Let me give you a piece of advice.”
I nodded. Jim frequently gave me advice. He was a native of Boston, and I think he felt sorry for me for being from North Carolina.
“Don’t pick up the women,” he said.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I’m heading up to the North End for some Italian food.”
“Yeah? Let me give you a piece of advice.”
I nodded. Jim frequently gave me advice. He was a native of Boston, and I think he felt sorry for me for being from North Carolina.
“Don’t pick up the women,” he said.
I gave him a quizzical look.
“You pick anyone up, you need to know her fucking brother is waiting around the fucking corner with a fucking baseball bat.”
Jimmy used the F-Bomb word extensively. Actually, in his usage of that word he could make a Marine Corps D.I. sound like a Sunday School teacher. Anyway, I took his advice, ate some great pasta, and returned home unharmed.
About four years afterwards, my brother-in-law Tom and I went by train to New York City to see about getting agents, me for my writing and him for his music. While there, we decided to visit the White Horse Tavern, famed hangout of such luminaries as Dylan Thomas, James Baldwin, Mary Travers, Norman Mailer, and Bob Dylan.
We boarded the subway and headed north. With each stop, I noticed that fewer and fewer white people were riding the train. Eventually, we realized we had taken the wrong line, departed the train, and found ourselves in the middle of Harlem.
It was January, and cold, and when we came up from the station we found ourselves looking at a burned out church and walking on a street filled with young black men. Here we were, two white boys in knit caps and backpacks. We started walking down the street looking for the subway station out of there. Like an idiot, I told Tom I had a knife with me. Later he rightly laughed about the knife. It might open a letter, but it wouldn’t have put a dent into the guys giving us the eye.
After about a block, a black guy passed us going the opposite direction and said in a low voice, “Boys, you better get out of here.”
After another block, we saw an older man walking up his stoop. Hoping he might help us, I jogged toward him, calling “Sir, sir, sir,” but that old man never even turned his head. He opened the door and disappeared inside.
In a couple more minutes, the gods of fortune blessed us. We found a station, popped our coins in the turnstile, and headed all the way to the opposite end of Manhattan, where we sat in a bar and contemplated our foolishness.
To this day, I am convinced no one attacked us because of our backpacks. They probably thought we were drug dealers.
Two morals here.
First, when someone who knows what he’s talking about gives you some advice, it pays to listen.
Second, when you’re heading into unknown territory, it pays to read the maps and scout out the land.
Here’s what can happen if you neglect these lessons. Warning: language and violence.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_lijLYuw-o&ebc=ANyPxKoNj-jTvf-vlHCQ77FblZLGq0XmKxeieWWQyXxlN0lD_vQwGCu-lu40T_PCWffvJUUtC6RjEx-pnj2JIu0k6Hv0N4kXHg