Philly Transit Chronicles 4: 2nd Time Getting Mugged

When I moved onto Dauphin Street back in the early 2000’s, Fishtown was still Fishtown. Tucked in between the up and coming Northern Liberties and opiate infested Kensington neighborhoods, the 19125 postal code used to be a pocket of old white trash so removed from the rest of the city some of them spoke a Gaelic dialect long forgotten in Ireland. In the ’80s self-appointed racist sentries stood guard at the Fishtown elevated train stops brandishing hockey sticks to make sure anyone darker than them kept moving onto the next stop. Eventually developers bought the locals out. They all probably moved to Florida. Nowadays, you can see Fishtownians walking around with yoga mats, traveling from microbrew to artisan bike repair shop in flip-flops, the official footwear of people who hate the ability to run away.

I moved there for the same reason I moved anywhere. Cheap rent. I was friends with bouncers from Tattooed Mom’s bar on South Street who helped me move. They were all big guys, so moving didn’t take long.

I also knew the bartender at the bar down the street. I met Alex at Dirty Franks where he was a door guy and he had just started bartending at Atlantis, conveniently located less than three blocks away from my new abode. Alex had invited me over for a couple drinks after I was done moving in. The bar boasted a giant aquarium and served Yard’s beer on tap. I couldn’t wait to finish moving and head over for a cold one, while my roommate and our friends chilled at the ranch.

Forever sporting a Peaky Blinder’s hat, Alex had a tattoo on his forearm that read, “Go Get Your Dad.” He looked like the bully from the Simpsons all grown up. He had a reputation for sneaking up behind drunks about to brawl and then grabbing the inside of the instigator’s elbow after they cocked back to punch. He’d utter the word “Nope” as he dragged the bewildered patron outside for further explanation.

. When I got there, Alex told me a story about a weird Christian cult that he nicknamed the Church of the Fixed Gear, a reference to the popular hipster bicycles they rode. The members were notorious for drinking fifty-cent drafts during Monday night specials and tipping zilch. One day, Alex fashioned a collection basket out of a fry basket, a pool cue, and duct tape. Extending it toward them he asked, “Is this more familiar?” To his puckish delight, they never returned.

I don’t know how many free shots he gave me that night, but it was more than a couple. I ran out of cash and Alex’s charity, which meant back then that it was time to go home. After draining my glass, I threw whatever singles were left in my wallet on the bar and went on my merry way.

It was still light out, close to dusk. My friends should still be over. I stumbled home like Igor, on the edge of blackout drunk, my homeostasis back then. That was back before I got off the sauce for good after reading Quit Drinking Without Willpower by Allen Carr decades later.

A block from my new home, I heard someone from behind me say “yo” in a calm, collected voice, like Bob Ross ordering a pizza. I turned and found myself on the ground, holding my jaw, wondering how the fuck I got down there. I like to think I got hit by brass knuckles or pistol whipped, or maybe that guy just had one hell of a haymaker. Five sets of Timberlands surrounded me. I don’t know if it was the booze or shock that numbed my pain. I was more confused than anything else.

One of them snapped his fingers like an expectant maitre d’. “Gimme all your shit. Now.”

Using my tongue, I felt that one of my back teeth was cracked. “Goddamn it! Fine. Here you go.“

I thought cursing made me sound tough. It didn’t, not even a little bit. I handed over a wallet containing a guitar pic, a Septa bus token, my ID, and a debit card. They kept their word and stopped hitting me, before they went on their way.

It took me a while to remember which apartment was mine. I just moved in and the trauma to my head didn’t help.

The first person I ran into in the hall was the landlord and I told him what happened. After checking my pupils for a concussion with a Maglite, he opened a bottle of vodka and handed it to me, which dulled my aching tooth. While he rallied the troops, I called my bank and canceled my card. For the first time in my life I had a posse.

Time to find out who just fucked up my tooth.

My landlord said,” What did they look like, Steve?”

I said, “They looked like white trash. They all had on white wife beaters, baggy jeans, and bushy beards.”

He looked disappointed, “Steve, you just described half of Fishtown. There is no point going out and looking for those guys. It could have been any of them.”

It took three trips to three dentists over the span of five years to finally fix my tooth for good. During the year and a half I lived there, I didn’t really venture out into that hood much, and mostly rode my bicycle to work, so I’d only catch half the shit talking.

Anytime I’m Fishtown, I still get a slight adrenaline rush, as I walk past folks in Patagonia jackets walking their labradoodles while carrying Gucci poop bags. Now, anyday without being punched in the face is a good one.