(Images provided by The Drifter, and, I would like to think, Boo)
“I am an American, Chicago-born…” – Saul Bellow
Somewhere around the year 2017 A.D., when I was around fifty years of age, something happened to me that was so dramatic and traumatic it caused me to collapse that very day into a severe nervous breakdown right in the middle of the really bad nervous breakdown I was already having.
When I look back on those times now, sometimes I wonder how I even survived at all. And yet I did survive. And, lately, I even appear to be thriving.
The gas station involved in this story is what is known around here as a super-shady place.
Not as in shaded with lots of trees. There are no plants there at all, except the weeds sticking up through the cracks in the pavement.
Shady as in lots of shady people hanging around.
“Shady people” means folks who look like they just crawled out from the bottom of the barrel to look around at the world and get themselves some.
The people involved are of all colors, shapes, sizes, genders, sexual preferences, political persuasions and so forth.
The one thing they all seem to have in common is their shadiness.
“Disreputable” is a more fancy term for the same thing.
Turns out I looked a bit disreputable myself that day, at least to some folks, although I wasn’t quite aware of it in the way I maybe should have been.
This gas station is still there, on Roosevelt Road in the far West Side of Chicago, on the other side of Cicero (Al Capone’s hometown) and Oak Park (hometown of holy Hemingway and the great Frank Lloyd Wright) and right near Berwyn (humble home of yours truly).
The gas station sells gasoline and also other items. Like lots of hard liquor, cheap beer and hobo wine, sickening food loaded with horrible chemicals, countless amounts of smokable things, various sex toys and safe sex items like condoms randomly displayed in wide array all over the place, and, I was soon to learn, other things as well. It also has a “rest room” around the corner I’ve never had the courage to approach.
I wasn’t at this gas station because it was shady.
I was there because shady places generally don’t bother me too much (and even fascinate me when I’m in the right mood), and I was mostly there because I live in the area and I needed gasoline, and I didn’t have much money and this was the cheapest gasoline around.
At the time I was the proud owner of an ancient black mini-van, a vehicle that felt to me like a family member almost, I was that fond of her.
So I was standing there filling her with gas so I could continue drifting around town in that inimitable way I have.
(I haven’t been on an airplane in over twenty years and, for the record, flying on an airplane in any fashion is much worse for global warming than any kind of driving is: much, much worse. The driving I do is required for my artistic profession (and disposition), but I do limit it too, as much as possible, taking days off from driving and walking instead much of the time, etc. As well, I usually drive slowly, which also burns much less fossil fuel. This is to the future.)
I was there putting gas in my beloved black mini-van.
A shady-looking person suddenly walked right up to me – out of nowhere, as the saying goes.
Out of nowhere, suddenly, fast, and rapidly, too.
He was so shady-looking that I have to say he was a very scary-looking guy, who was also much bigger than me (even though I’m almost five feet eleven inches tall and weigh a hundred and ninety pounds).
I’ve been jumped before several different times in my life under various circumstances, and this guy made me nervous, bouncing up into my face like that.
But then I saw he was only asking for a small hand-out.
I had a few coins in my pocket, maybe a dollar’s worth, so I dug around, located these, and handed them to him because I now realized he looked hungry, very hungry.
My desert island book, other than The Bible, is The Imitation of Christ by the shady German monk Thomas a Kempis. And I remembered Jesus’ tale of The Good Samaritan. And that was why I handed him the money; even though I knew it wasn’t doing much, it was something.
At the time, you could buy an entire hamburger at McDonald’s for that amount of change, and this fellow was clearly hungry like he said he was.
If he were to spend the pittance on liquor or drugs instead, I figured he needed those as well. Looking as rough as he did, he probably needed more than one thing to help him make it through another day.
According to my private religion, turning my back on him would’ve been a sin.
He seemed happy to get the money even though it was such a small amount, almost overjoyed, actually.
But as he walked away I seemed to notice a strange glint in his one good eye and a weird twitch at the corner of his bleeding lip. He limped badly, was of indeterminate race, and was dressed in rags.
And I thought the matter had ended there.
The next thing I knew I was slammed up against the back of my van from behind so hard it would turn out that the bridge of my nose was broken, a scar that still shows on my face.
And I was slammed up against the back of my van so hard from behind that everything went black for a second and it took my breath away.
Until I came to again and realized with instantaneous horror, terror, and nightmare fear that my arms were pinned up against the back of the van by two gigantic, horrifically strong men, one on each arm on either side of me and neither of them in a good mood.
And I was literally pinned there, like the Christ, in the crucifixion position, standing with both of my arms pinned down straight out at my sides.
It turns out the two gigantic men were undercover police.
They had been watching me from their undercover vehicle the whole time, wondering what I was doing around here.
When they saw me hand the man the dollar in coins, they thought they saw him hand me something back.
When they rifled through my pockets, they found out that wasn’t the case.
But when they slammed me up against the back of the van like that, they thought I’d been purchasing crack cocaine, meth, opioids, whatever, from the man.
When they realized I hadn’t been doing so at all, and that I’d only been handing the fellow a dime, as the saying goes, they began to apologize so profusely that I almost instantly forgave them, even though I was still extremely angry at them and sometimes still get angry at them to this day, when I drive by that gas station.
They told me there were many, many gang bangers frequenting that area who carried assault rifles and machine guns in the trunks of their cars, pistols on their own persons, switchblade knives in their pockets, clubs beneath the seats of their low-riding vehicles, and so forth.
That was why they felt compelled to attack me from behind and slam me up against the van in the crucifixion position.
They were both well over six feet tall and huge as far as muscles go, each of them outdoing me by several sizes in that regard (gym rats, they call them). One of them was probably six feet four.
But they were sorry about what happened when they found out I was just out going about my regular, legal business.
And as they let me go on my merry way, they apologized again, slapped me on the back, and told me to have a nice day.
END NOTE: The Drifter continues to drift through some of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Chicago: fearlessly.
He does it because he’s an American and this is America.
Saragun Springs 
Good Sunday Drifter
Our shady place is the 7-11 down the street. Sits next to the shelter and when I go there, although I seldom carry cash (feel like a fool using debit for two dollar purchases, but that’s America), but I usually bring a five because someone will need it for the single cigars they sell there.
What you tell is the problem that some cops cause for all cops. Give some fools a badge and they think they are “Vic Mackey” (sp) from The Shield. Jacking someone up like that because of the possibility of a dime bag transaction is both wrong and useless. I do appreciate cops and especially firefighters and EMT’s because it is a dangerous and violent world–but acting like above the law thugs causes distrust, to say the very least.
I am certain that the Drifter can take a punch, but he doesn’t deserve such treatment!
Also, I must digress and remark that Boo has wonderful, knowing, root beer barrel eyes. The color of a hard candy I used to eat by the bag but cannot find anymore.
Now that I think about it, you are wise to have three lovely but stout Dogs.
Another fine column!
Beware of hobo wine,
Leila
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Leila
Totally agree with you, not all cops are bad and I’ve even been friends with a few of them. Most of them are okay, a few are good, and a few more are over-zealous. I think it’s also true that the line between a cop and a criminal is often very, very, very thin, especially in America probably, a place where a man convicted of 34 felonies can proudly be elected president.
Among other things, this column had a dual purpose. A.: to make the point that anything which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. B.: to show that America has always been something of a police state and even though that’s true, it doesn’t mean we should let it get worse!
Yes, The Drifter can take a punch. And has taken some of the worst punches he’s ever had from the female of the species, not the male.
Boo says thank you for the lovely poetic description about his eyes, I think he’s blushing although I can’t tell for sure under all that fur!
The D
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Hey Drifter
That was totally engrossing!
Great world building!
There is something alluring about shady gas stations. I once worked road construction in Gary on an impasse leading to a very high bridge. The gas station nearby makes me think of the one you wrote about. Seedy with a thick dirty glass partition where the attendant looked like he was performing for some kind of peep show. Or trapped without air.The guys from the local Union carried guns.
This was a shocking story! How you described the first panhandling guy built up a lot of tension. Then you described your Christian values, showing why you did what you did. Your actions were Biblically correct and the guy could have been as Jesus said, “the least of us.” The thirty, hungry, the imprisoned.The angels among us or you were.
I thought you were safe for a moment, but those big dudes rushed you! Then I thought they would rob you! You showed this very well. I could feel the pain of being slammed against the van. Great writing!
It turns out to be ironic, too. The supposed good guys were not all that good and injured you. They profiled you by how you looked, and bum rushed you. Then all the apologies. It’s like you got punished for just going about your business–even spreading goodwill.
I liked that ending. Powerful! The freedom of the Drifter! Your not going to take America away from the Drifter! What a fantastic story!
Christopher
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Christopher
Thanks for reading because you don’t just read, you also PERCEIVE and understand all the nuances and the intended subtle effects. You read with great imagination, wisdom and experience at hand, the best kind of reader.
The raw material for this tale is life itself and everything is narrated exactly as it happened, including the broken nose.
But in the telling of it I tried to be influenced by Hitchcock, especially his tv program where the episodes were thirty minutes (minus commercials) and especially because those were influenced by Alfred H’s favorite writer, Edgar Allan Poe.
Your description of the shady gas station in Gary is LOL funny, AND hilarious! Can totally picture it, too.
“The Gas Station Incident” is the story of a place, as much as anything else.
I’m glad this story worked. Thanks so much for letting me know it did!
Dale (The D)
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good grief. That’s awful. I am possibly totally incorrect but it seems to me that the police in america and much more prone to violence, in an act now ask questions later than the police here. These days it’s possibly a bit difficult to decide which is right. Having lived in the middle east for a long time I know how it feels to have to watch your step lest you suddenly find yourself on the wrong side of things but just making a kind gesture in your own neighbourhood and ending up this way is chilling. Thanks for this glimpse into the darker edges of life. dd
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Hi Diane
I saw this and agree. I think the agression has its roots in the possibity of guns. I believe that such creates a tension all its own.
When I read your books the UK situation shows just how major a factor it is!
Leila
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Hi Diane!
I agree with Leila that the situation all-around is intensified immensely by the fact that the police here are dealing not just with the possibility of regular hand guns or even long guns, but also with potential assault rifles and even machine guns, all of which are plentiful even though not legal in Illinois (for the most part).
Among younger police especially, too, there often seems to be an issue with showing everyone who’s in charge, which comes from both bravado and a veiled sense of fear in knowing that half the time, the criminals are far more dangerous than almost all of the police (but not all).
I can only imagine how delicately one needs to step around in much of the Middle East in order to avoid entanglements with those in charge. Never been there but I’ve read about it.
Having said all that, I can say for sure that Trump’s creation/expansion of the police force called ICE is a monstrous thing, a Hitler-like thing, especially the way they grab sometimes innocent people right off the street while ganging up on them and being anonymous, wearing masks, etc.
The gang bangers are a problem but the gangs of ICE agents lately are just as bad – or worse.
Illinois does not need National Guard troops trained for war coming up here from the Deep South and telling us how to do things. Far from it! And many of those states have worse crime rates than we do. Clean up your own backyard first if you want to do such things, at least.
Parts of Chicago are bad but overall it isn’t in the Top 20 most dangerous US cities. Almost all of those are in states that voted for Trump, unlike Illinois.
Thank you!
Dale
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One shady place vividly evoked, the conversational tone wrongfooting the reader; genuine shock to that sudden slamming against the van, the beggar having just limped away. Love too those last words of the End Note: He does it because he’s an American and this is America. Terrific read.
Geraint
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