One afternoon in the mid-1970s, I was walking along, some 20 yards behind a guy heading east on the 800 block of West Grace Street. I think it was summertime, but I don't remember anything in particular about the weather. Anyway, the guy in front of me nonchalantly picked up the Organic Food Store’s hand-painted sandwich board style sign from the sidewalk, put it under his arm and kept walking.
We both kept heading eastward. I don't remember what I first thought, at the time, but I was curious about it and to close the distance between us, I walked a little faster down the red brick sidewalk. By the time we had passed the Biograph Theatre (where I worked), I was pretty sure that he had no honest reason to take the sign. He was a big-haired hippie and I suppose he could have been a student. Or, he might have been a traveling panhandler/opportunist. In those days there were plenty of both in the neighborhood.
Passing by Sally Bell’s Kitchen, in the 700 block, I was within five yards of him when I spoke the lines I had just written for myself. My tone was resolute: “Hey, I saw you take the sign. Just put it down and walk away.”
The thief’s body language announced that he had heard me. He didn’t turn around. Instead he walked faster. I continued following and I said with more force: “Put the sign down. The cops are already on the way. Walk away, while you still can” (or words to that effect).
Without further ado, the wooden sign clattered onto the sidewalk. I was delighted!
The sign thief kept just going without looking back. As I gathered my neighbor’s property, I watched the fleeing hippie break into a sprint. He crossed Grace Street and was last seen going toward Monroe Park at the next corner. By then, it all struck me as funny.
So I carried the recovered property back to the store. Obviously, I don’t really remember exactly what I said in this incident, all those years ago, but what you just read was a faithful recounting of the events and the spirit of what I said.
What I had done came in part from a sense of righteous indignation. That, together with the spirit of camaraderie that existed among some of the neighborhood’s merchants in that time. There were several of us, then in our mid-to-late-20s, who were operating businesses on that bohemian strip — bars, retail shops, etc. We were friends and we watched out for one another.
My tough guy performance had lasted less than a minute. Now I’m amazed that I used to do such things. Young people can be so sure of their interpretation of what they see. The character I invented was drawn somewhat from Humphrey Bogart, with as much Robert Mitchum as I could muster.
Hey, since the thief bought the act, he probably felt lucky to have gotten away. Who knows? Maybe he’s still telling this same story, too, but from another angle.
*
This much I know — that quirky milieu on Grace Street in those days was a goldmine of offbeat characters and colorful stories. Chelf’s Drug Store was at the corner of Grace and Shafer. With its antique soda fountain, it had been a hangout for magazine-reading art students for decades. It seemed frozen in time. Maybe the late-1940s?
The original Village Restaurant, a block west of Chelf’s, was a legendary beatnik watering hole, going back to the 1950s. Writer Tom Robbins and artist William Fletcher “Bill” Jones (1930-‘98) hung out there. In the '60s and '70s the same neighborhood was also home to cartoon-like characters, such as the wandering Flashlight Lady and the Grace Street Midget.
By the late-'70s the scene in that neighborhood had evolved. It was meaner and more dangerous. Bars hired badass bouncers to guard their front doors. Style-wise, hippies were gradually being replaced by punks. Cocaine was replacing pot as the most popular recreational drug.
In 1981, or so, I can also remember another summer day. A day when an angry, red-bearded street beggar with a missing foot was scaring old ladies coming and going from the then-new Dominion Place apartment building on the 1000 block of Grace. He and I were about the same age. As I walked by, I said something to him like, "Hey, cut it out. Move on!"
The surly panhandler laughed like a corny villain in a slasher movie and threatened to, “Bite a plug” out of me. And, I'm sure that's exactly what he said.
Wisely, I didn’t press my case any further. Instead, I moved on.
*
As she moved slowly with tiny steps, getting across a busy street could be difficult for Priscilla. So, beginning sometime back in the 1970s, whenever I’d see her struggling with that problem, routinely, I used to help out by walking her across.
Usually it was West Grace Street or Harrison, somewhere not far from the Biograph. She lived in the neighborhood. The ritual went on for years; I suppose she was some 10-to-12 years my senior.
However, I can still picture her from one particular gray afternoon that I’m guessing was in the late-1980s, during my Slant-publishing days. I was heading west on West Grace Street. Priscilla was standing between two parked cars on the north side of the 900-block. The traffic was heavy. She was crying. So, I stopped my VW bus and switched on the emergency blinker. Got out and greeted Priscilla. Of course, she knew what would come next, so she smiled through her tears. We both nearly chuckled at the sound of the car horns honking, as we crossed the street at her pace. Maybe that was the last time for our routine.
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