"Letter to a Friend Back Home," by Luigi Guglielmo (dated April 15, 1925)
Today was quite a strange day. I was driving on Narrow Street in the East End of London, on the bank of the River Thames, shortly after noon when the incident happened. I saw a guy, tall and lanky, in the distance walking on my side of the road. He was apparently leaving a blue phone booth; the door was left open. His fashion was impeccable; he was wearing a fedora and a casual, light-blue polyester shirt, with a white silk scarf for good measure. He looked at where he was going, not deviating from this line of sight one bit. It was as if he had a goal, and he was going to achieve it no matter what. If he is a businessman - he probably is - then it's a desirable trait to have.
But today that was his temporary downfall. Out of the alleyway to his left, a couple of gangsters, none of them looking older than twenty, ambushed him. They worked efficiently, like a wolf pack. Within three seconds the man was on the ground, wailing like a little child, which was an appropriate reaction since he was utterly defenseless compared to those gangsters. I know what they've been through; in Naples, one had to be cunning to survive both the Mafia and the anarchic street boys. Same thing in both Philadelphia and New York. These boys were raised in warzones, and obviously those who remain alive were the ones who were the most responsive to change.
Of course, it was against my nature to let these kids simply beat up the poor man. I made a sudden stop by the telephone booth, which was a fair distance from the fight. I got out of my car, ran into the booth, then locked the door and double checked that it was locked. I grabbed the phone with my sweaty left hand and pressed it against my equally sweaty ear. I pressed the red "Emergency Call" button with my right.
Nothing happened. I repeatedly pressed the button many times, in quick succession, yet still nothing happened. I knew that this was not proper; I once called emergency services when my cousin fainted at a party in the West End two years back. I then figured out to grab a nickel and enter in the emergency number, as if it is any other number. Going outside would be suicidal.
Then I heard bumping on the glass and the rattling of metal. My heart stopped then. The guys found me? I thought. I knew that these street boys were ruthless, but I never believed them to be so efficient. I dared to look behind me and I saw a gangster, with brown hair and anemic skin, in grey clothes and a grey hat common with the working class here, trying furiously to pick the lock.
"Um, there's a guy trying to pick the lock to my telephone booth!" I shouted to nobody in particular. I waited for a response. I knew that a fight between them and me would be a decisive victory for them. I used to be an athlete back in my high school and college days, and admittedly I had - and won - my fair share of fights. But that was in my youth. Now I'm almost fifty, and I'm terribly out of shape. Perhaps I can hold my own against one person, perhaps, but I was doomed against the six or seven on the sidewalk. Nay, anyone is doomed against six or seven people.
I kept searching in my wallet. Not a single pence! Dammit! I thought. Shouldn't had asked everyone to "keep the change."
Then the door opened and the lad grabbed me by both of my shoulders. He yanked me, snapping the telephone cord, and banged me against the side of the booth. I made no attempt to resist. I basically couldn't; he was thin, perhaps thinner than the man being beaten up, but he was incredibly strong.
"Lis'n, boo-shwa!" The guy stared menacingly at me, his face only a few inches from mines. "Wha ah you doin', tryin' to defend a fellow American? 'Cause fat ain't gonna cut around 'ere, eh?"
"Well," I said, strangely feeling apologetic in doing so. "I just don't want you killing that guy. Okay?"
The youth looked at me, then at his gang, then back at me, then back at them. "Eh, should we be sparin' fis guy?"
"He ain't did nothin' 'rong," said a guy in a crowd. For the next three minutes, as the victim was laying bleeding on the ground and I was being squeezed by the side of a telephone booth, they vigorously debated their option. It was like a Model UN unmod, only with more slang, less paper, and less noble intentions.
The guy choking me snapped his head back. "You know, we're gonna cutting you a deal. Say no'ing, and we'll let you bof go, to do your merry li'le tasks and such. Maybe even take 'em to the 'ospital. Call the police, and you and your li'le friend 'ere are gonna be in a world of 'urt, whether you're een East End or you're een New Yok or you're een where-eveh."
I'm not sure how they would kill me back in New York, but if they can pick a lock in ten seconds, they can do such things as these.
Then I realized - how did they know I would go to New York? How did they know that I'm an American?
"But be awar', American. Your friend ove' fere, he's a bes-ness-man. A boor-shwa! A capi'alist! We 'erd 'eem in some sot of bees-ness deal, and we ain't tolera'ing that! 'Cause ees guys like 'eem are what destroyed the Wor'er's Commonwealth! Back ven, while it wasn't perfect, vere were jobs for everyone, a 'ome on everyone's 'ead, free medeecal carh, all vat good stuff. Now, all me lads ar' 'omeless, wit bees-ness-men like 'eem geeving us no'ing but scraps! Li'erally! Jus' look at the phone boof! The new gover'ment car's so li'le 'bout us, vey ain't replacing or fi'in the telephones in the East End!"
Then the guy let go of me, grabbed his gangsters, and left the scene. I was the only one left with the businessman, who was bleeding out of his nose on the street. There were bruises all over the visible parts of his body; more of him was purple than not.
I cautiously walked over to him. "Hey," I said to him.
He looked at me. "Thanks for saving my life."
"Can you get up?"
"I can try..."
"Here," I said, "let me help you. We grabbed each other's wrists, and with that assistance the man got up.
"Thanks." He then sneezed, spraying a drizzle of spit and blood on the ground.
"No problem," I said. I then offered him a piece of advice. "Don't leave the phone booth door open. Apparently they can tell by your accent where you're from."
* * *
Whenever we were going to a conference, always in a major city, the veterans always said to the novices "When you see a beggar, don't give him anything." Always. They were common in the cities, though for some reason they seemed to have a greater density in Philadelphia. They made a habit of harassing passerby, with acts ranging from simply shouting in peoples' ears to making music - I once saw a guy with a grand piano on the sidewalk once. Everybody assumes that they're doing it to pay bootleggers for alcohol or opium, so nobody gives them money.
There was this one time, however when during Philadelphia Model United Nations our delegation was walking on New Street; I believe that was in 1919. It was close to the areas on New Street that had nothing but abandoned houses that only had people waiting to mug. There was this guy sitting on a bench, with a tin can at his side: a typical beggar. However, in his arms was something unusual: a baby. The baby was sound asleep, expressing no trepidations about what can and will happen around him. The guy was scarily thin, with deep-seated eyes that held a loop of tragedy and despair. We couldn't feel anything but pity for the family of two. But everyone knew that it was a scam, that the man wanted drugs.
So we moved on. I was near the back of the line, and I deliberately paced myself such that I walked slower than the others. When everyone was safely in front of me, I went back to that man and put twenty dollars and an uneaten sandwich in the can. I looked in his eyes. The tragedy was replaced by a look of hope.
When we came back, there was a crime scene. The man and his baby...they had both been stabbed and left to die.
