Boston's North End
Boston's North End
I was stationed at the Coast Guard base in Boston’s North End from April 1995 to December 1997. The North End was a close-knit Italian neighborhood just beginning to suffer the affects of gentrification. I was walking across a marked cross walk at Hanover and Battery Streets one sunny day in May of 1995, cooled by an ocean breeze, when an old man named "Ritchie" hit me with his shiny new Cadillac, hard enough to leave a bruise on my leg.
I don’t bruise easily. He nearly knocked me off my feet too. I sort of lost my temper (just a little), and punched his quarter panel as he drove indifferently past me.
I despise "hit and run" drivers even more than I hate being ignored. Ritchie must have heard the dull crump of my fist slamming into his precious sheet metal. His door burst open and he leapt out, taking a wide swing at me with much yapping on his part. I'm not a "yeller", not even when angry. I slapped his attack aside and told him, quietly and calmly, "Don’t be stupid, you’re not good enough."
One just doesn’t say that, especially in this neighborhood, in broad daylight, with family and friends watching. Enraged, Ritchie swung at me a second time, putting everything he had into it.
Ritchie was slightly built and seriously underpowered. I slipped his swing, and grabbed his shirt. First I pulled him off balance in the direction of his attack, using just my right hand. I spun him about, and then launched him backwards into his opened car door with a flick of my wrist. He collapsed into the apex and landed on his arse. By using just my wrist to do this, I thought I’d show him he was too far out of his league to go toe-to-toe with me. I was beginning to loose me temper, though, and was thinking spitefully I might go stomp him into a meaty pile of piss and blood.
His elderly Aunt came running between us, pleading "Ritchie, no!"
A young man half my size tried to grab me from behind. I shrugged him off, bouncing him into the car, just aft of Ritchie and the old woman. The young man suddenly deeming me worthy of basic respect. He pleading with me, "Please, Mister, just walk away."
To get at Ritchie I’d have to go through the kid and the old woman. A crowd was gathering. Ritchie clutched his heart, and screaming obscenities at me while his Aunt manhandled him across the street toward the Fire Station about 50 yards away. I walked away having "won" the fight without landing a single blow (except to Ritchie’s Cadillac).
A short while later, lunch complete, I was walking back to base when I approached the same intersection. I'd thought about coming back another way to avoid any complications. I decided to face responsibility for my actions. My mother had been raised in the North End (a fact I did not advertise), so I knew I didn’t know shit about how things worked there.
The neighborhood was quiet, and tensely watchful. Ritchie’s car was gone, and three older men sat on a bench nearby. As I passed by, the gentleman in the middle motioned me over.
"What happened?" he asked calmly, by-passing unnecessary introductions.
"That old man ran into me with his car. He took a swing at me, but doesn’t know how to fight". I could see that the two bookends flinched at that. I continued, "I didn’t want to hurt him, so I walked away".
I knew that if these men had not witnessed the altercation themselves, they’d have at least heard from a dozen witnesses by now. There was no sense in embellishing any of my statements with histrionics.
I wasn’t wearing a uniform. I'd spent the morning doing fieldwork. I was dressed casually vice professionally, wearing khaki’s, a clean shirt with a collar, and good work boots instead of the usual suit and tie. Image mattered in this neighborhood: no shorts and sandals, ever.
"Did you swear at him?" the man in the middle asked (i.e., Was I disrespectful to an elder? Did I provoke him?).
"No, I wasn’t looking for trouble, I was just getting a sandwich", I answered. I didn’t need to add that I had patronized a local business.
"Who are you?" the man in the middle asked.
I gave him my name, and added that I worked on the Coast Guard base and would be here a few years, thus answering his real question (e.g., Where do I belong in the neighborhood hierarchy, if any where, and how long would we have to deal with each other?). I didn’t need to ask who he was.
The men on the bench exchanged glances and murmured to each other for a moment. The one in the middle spoke again, simply saying, "You did the handsome thing" (e.g., I'd handled myself well). I thanked them, and rumbled back onto base one happy little 'Dozer.
When I returned to my unit I reported to the Officer In Charge (OIC) straight away the events of my lunch hour. Our Gunnery Sergeant joined us - he'd heard about the incident too. When I mentioned the old men on the bench on my return to base, Gunny was shocked: "Jesus, ‘Dozer, that was a mafia trial".
"I know", I smiled mischievously, adding with a wink, "I was acquitted."
I knew that the men I had spoken with on my return to base were not Mafia Bosses. They were only asking about what was going on in their neighborhood. The FBI had shut down the Mafia years before. I also knew I'd answered their questions well.
Even a non-fight such as this one has repercussions. My OIC had a new story to tell (one he exaggerated every time). More importantly, the people in the neighborhood learned that I wasn’t a threat, and welcomed me into the fold. I soon had friends all around the neighborhood - guys to swap jokes with, girls to flirt with. Everyone would say "Hello", even the old ladies in the neighborhood, some of whom remembered mother’s family. I soon learned which restaurants and café’s the locals preferred, and which merchants and grocers would give me deals. The too short years I spent there become one of my favorite tours of duty.
Ritchie had a rougher time. I learned (many times over) that Ritchie had just undergone heart surgery two days prior to our altercation. The neighborhood consensus was that he shouldn’t be fighting any more. I also learned that he had a "drinking problem", and "was too hard on his wife and kids." Terrible, that.
Ritchie spent much time and effort staying out of my way. I wasn’t even after him. People he'd bullied all his life were cowed no more, and a few went looking for some payback. One guy kicked Ritchie arse all over the street a week or so later. I heard the guy was a relative, and Ritchie started it when the man wouldn’t give Ritchie the keys to that shiny new Cadillac with the barely noticeable dent in the quarter panel. Nobody was going to take Ritchie's shit any more.
I was stationed at the Coast Guard base in Boston’s North End from April 1995 to December 1997. The North End was a close-knit Italian neighborhood just beginning to suffer the affects of gentrification. I was walking across a marked cross walk at Hanover and Battery Streets one sunny day in May of 1995, cooled by an ocean breeze, when an old man named "Ritchie" hit me with his shiny new Cadillac, hard enough to leave a bruise on my leg.
I don’t bruise easily. He nearly knocked me off my feet too. I sort of lost my temper (just a little), and punched his quarter panel as he drove indifferently past me.
I despise "hit and run" drivers even more than I hate being ignored. Ritchie must have heard the dull crump of my fist slamming into his precious sheet metal. His door burst open and he leapt out, taking a wide swing at me with much yapping on his part. I'm not a "yeller", not even when angry. I slapped his attack aside and told him, quietly and calmly, "Don’t be stupid, you’re not good enough."
One just doesn’t say that, especially in this neighborhood, in broad daylight, with family and friends watching. Enraged, Ritchie swung at me a second time, putting everything he had into it.
Ritchie was slightly built and seriously underpowered. I slipped his swing, and grabbed his shirt. First I pulled him off balance in the direction of his attack, using just my right hand. I spun him about, and then launched him backwards into his opened car door with a flick of my wrist. He collapsed into the apex and landed on his arse. By using just my wrist to do this, I thought I’d show him he was too far out of his league to go toe-to-toe with me. I was beginning to loose me temper, though, and was thinking spitefully I might go stomp him into a meaty pile of piss and blood.
His elderly Aunt came running between us, pleading "Ritchie, no!"
A young man half my size tried to grab me from behind. I shrugged him off, bouncing him into the car, just aft of Ritchie and the old woman. The young man suddenly deeming me worthy of basic respect. He pleading with me, "Please, Mister, just walk away."
To get at Ritchie I’d have to go through the kid and the old woman. A crowd was gathering. Ritchie clutched his heart, and screaming obscenities at me while his Aunt manhandled him across the street toward the Fire Station about 50 yards away. I walked away having "won" the fight without landing a single blow (except to Ritchie’s Cadillac).
A short while later, lunch complete, I was walking back to base when I approached the same intersection. I'd thought about coming back another way to avoid any complications. I decided to face responsibility for my actions. My mother had been raised in the North End (a fact I did not advertise), so I knew I didn’t know shit about how things worked there.
The neighborhood was quiet, and tensely watchful. Ritchie’s car was gone, and three older men sat on a bench nearby. As I passed by, the gentleman in the middle motioned me over.
"What happened?" he asked calmly, by-passing unnecessary introductions.
"That old man ran into me with his car. He took a swing at me, but doesn’t know how to fight". I could see that the two bookends flinched at that. I continued, "I didn’t want to hurt him, so I walked away".
I knew that if these men had not witnessed the altercation themselves, they’d have at least heard from a dozen witnesses by now. There was no sense in embellishing any of my statements with histrionics.
I wasn’t wearing a uniform. I'd spent the morning doing fieldwork. I was dressed casually vice professionally, wearing khaki’s, a clean shirt with a collar, and good work boots instead of the usual suit and tie. Image mattered in this neighborhood: no shorts and sandals, ever.
"Did you swear at him?" the man in the middle asked (i.e., Was I disrespectful to an elder? Did I provoke him?).
"No, I wasn’t looking for trouble, I was just getting a sandwich", I answered. I didn’t need to add that I had patronized a local business.
"Who are you?" the man in the middle asked.
I gave him my name, and added that I worked on the Coast Guard base and would be here a few years, thus answering his real question (e.g., Where do I belong in the neighborhood hierarchy, if any where, and how long would we have to deal with each other?). I didn’t need to ask who he was.
The men on the bench exchanged glances and murmured to each other for a moment. The one in the middle spoke again, simply saying, "You did the handsome thing" (e.g., I'd handled myself well). I thanked them, and rumbled back onto base one happy little 'Dozer.
When I returned to my unit I reported to the Officer In Charge (OIC) straight away the events of my lunch hour. Our Gunnery Sergeant joined us - he'd heard about the incident too. When I mentioned the old men on the bench on my return to base, Gunny was shocked: "Jesus, ‘Dozer, that was a mafia trial".
"I know", I smiled mischievously, adding with a wink, "I was acquitted."
I knew that the men I had spoken with on my return to base were not Mafia Bosses. They were only asking about what was going on in their neighborhood. The FBI had shut down the Mafia years before. I also knew I'd answered their questions well.
Even a non-fight such as this one has repercussions. My OIC had a new story to tell (one he exaggerated every time). More importantly, the people in the neighborhood learned that I wasn’t a threat, and welcomed me into the fold. I soon had friends all around the neighborhood - guys to swap jokes with, girls to flirt with. Everyone would say "Hello", even the old ladies in the neighborhood, some of whom remembered mother’s family. I soon learned which restaurants and café’s the locals preferred, and which merchants and grocers would give me deals. The too short years I spent there become one of my favorite tours of duty.
Ritchie had a rougher time. I learned (many times over) that Ritchie had just undergone heart surgery two days prior to our altercation. The neighborhood consensus was that he shouldn’t be fighting any more. I also learned that he had a "drinking problem", and "was too hard on his wife and kids." Terrible, that.
Ritchie spent much time and effort staying out of my way. I wasn’t even after him. People he'd bullied all his life were cowed no more, and a few went looking for some payback. One guy kicked Ritchie arse all over the street a week or so later. I heard the guy was a relative, and Ritchie started it when the man wouldn’t give Ritchie the keys to that shiny new Cadillac with the barely noticeable dent in the quarter panel. Nobody was going to take Ritchie's shit any more.