When everything changes....

Someone else's 1961 Econoline

I was trying to explain to someone how situations can change in an instant; how in a split second the context can completely change. It was probably 1987 and I was finishing my time at Tyler School of Art.  There's was a cool sign at the entrance to Tyler (or, rather, where it used to be in Elkin's Park) that had the "Tyler School of Art" logo in white Roman letters on three distinct black ovals.  Some overly-trained vandal (probably from the design department) had used the exact same white roman lettering to write "The Real World" on the back of the sign, as a reminder to all of us art-orchids that we were leaving the garden when we passed thru the entrance the other way.  I will always be grateful to the amazing community there that let us try on different personas, experiment on all fronts, and explore the fringes of passable behavior, all the while -somehow- taking us and our work seriously.  Thank you, thank you...  But back to the sign, it was a good thing, too, because Philadelphia was, well, "tougher" in those days and most of us who ventured out inevitably met up with that toughness, whether through theft, physical altercations, crazy confrontations, and also, if that weren't enough, a fascist police force (sorry, "fascist police force" is a "walking story", no cars involved so it doesn't belong here...).
A few blocks south of Tyler, Cheltenham Avenue divides Philadelphia from Elkin's Park which only a few blocks to the North begins to resemble fancy mainline towns that close at 6:00 pm. But Cheltenham Avenue is still, unquestionably, Philly, and where it crosses Ogontz Avenue, there sits ("sat", I just found out) Littleton's Diner.  It was one of those stainless steel diners, a "good" diner for its time, serving a broad range of clientele 24 hours a day with a menu from bagels&lox to waffles&chicken. As on many other nights, I found myself there after midnight with my good friend Brenden.  We drove over in the van and parked right up against the east end window of the diner.  As with most classic diners, the entrance was in the middle, so we walked half the length of the diner, entered and then walked all the way back to the last booth and plopped down right next to the van but with the diner window separating us now, me with my back to it.
Now, Brenden is difficult to explain, you couldn't quite guess what he was going to do, in particular, when he was nervous.  He wasn't the fearful type; he had, in fact, just confessed to me that he accidentally skewered his foot while trying to teach himself how to juggle chef's knives...  the thing for him was that he didn't like to appear foolish, so he hadn't told me for 2 months. So when Brenden started looking around nervously and twitching after we had ordered our food, I couldn't guess what was going on.  He smiled, raised an eyebrow, looked alarmed, sat forward, sat back, tilted his head the other way, tried looking alarmed AND smiling at the same time, pressed his hands flat on the table with elbows up, thought better of it, pushed back into the bench and interlaced his fingers, then did finger pushups, gathered his composure, tried tilting his head up looking down at me, then tilted his head down looking up at me.. I didn't know whether to laugh or yell, so I combined them, "BRENDEN, what's on your mind?!"
"I think someone is breaking into your van.." he said quietly.  I spun around and, sure enough, through the big plate glass window -but not 6 feet away- there were legs sticking out the open driver-door of the Econoline. Sometimes the adrenaline hits you so fast, there's no thinking about what happens next.  That probably would have been the case, except as I whipped around to tear out of the diner, I found that Brenden had gotten up first and he was in front of me between me and the door. He was kind of hurrying toward the door, but at about a third of the speed I wanted to go.  I couldn't get around him, as the aisle was narrow and it didn't seem like the time to critique his running abilities... it was the longest, slowest 40 feet I can remember in my life -I'm literally crawling up his back, trying not to kick his heels, bouncing up and down.  Brenden was probably thinking, considering what his stakes were in this situation, how much danger might be lurking outside, what might happen, whether he would have to walk home,...  My head and body were white hot light; the brooding rage over every broken window, stolen radio, slashed tire, and pilfered battery that I had endured since moving to Philly, not to mention a few muggings and random beatings, it was erupting like a super-power I couldn't control; I was going to right this wrong, this villian would pay...
I shot past Brenden at the cash register, burst out the doors and was at the van in a blink. I think I might have already been snarling... I was rabid. I reached into the dark van, over the black sneakers, black pants, black sweatshirt and grabbed the villian by the lapels.  With one yank, I hauled him out of the van, literally holding him up by the neck and yelling up into his face, "What the F... are you doing in my van?"  As I set him down on his feet, I realize he is 4 inches taller than me, but I don't care,  I'm hoping he'll say something stupid because I'm ready to start slugging,.. "Aww, I thought this was Jimmy's van,.." he mumbles nearly incoherently, "I was zhas, y'now, if this is Jimmy's van... I mean..." He's turning his face away from me, looking down. He's tall, very dark, and very thin; no wonder I could pick him up, he's like a scarecrow, and he's trying to figure out how to get rid of the stolen hand-grenade he's taken out of the truck. "Look, F@#&er, you KNOW this isn't Jimmy's truck, and I'm F#$%ing tired of having my shit stolen by sh#$heads like you!" Dammit, I want so badly to kick the shit out of this guy, he's going to pay for all the others!  Brenden has arrived behind me. "And that hand-grenades a fake!" I growl, mostly trying to maintain the integrity of my role, and I slap it out of his hand and into the van.

"HEY, is that guy breakin' into your truck?" comes a voice from the Diner steps behind me. "That n#$%er was stealin' out of your truck, wasn't he?" comes a second voice.  My hands are still clenching the neck of the hand-grenade thief's sweatshirt.  I turn my head to see three big white guys in flannel shirts coming out of the Diner. "That skumbag is in deep sh#t!" the third one says as they walk toward us.
I look back at the suddenly-black man at the ends of my suddenly white arms and our eyes meet for the first time. "Do you see what's about to happen?" I ask. He nods. "Run." I say, opening my hands.

Forgiveness -for all of us- is mercurial.