I know everything about West Philadelphia, the land of promise, diversity, strong artistic communities, cultural connections, economic empowerment and opportunity for all.
I also know all about the deranged crackhead who stands outside of the video library demanding high-fives. The police are glad to have my story as they shove my favorite crack addict into the back of a cruiser with his paper cup and imaginary machete.
After giving my name and ID, I am told I need to give an official report at the Southwest Police station. Regardless of the cultural revitalization in my neighborhood, I indicate that I will not be visiting that particular area unless escorted in a police vehicle. The cop opens the back door of the cruiser for me and says, “Uh. Sorry about the smell. I had a whole bunch of guys in there earlier. I’m not sure what they ate…”
I’m lucky. I am unharmed. I’ve lived in West Philly for about 5 years and I’ve never been to the police station or in a cop car. But I highly recommend this form of transport. Police cruisers are exactly like taxis but cheaper, the cops have to open the doors for you (so it’s kind of like a limo service) and the back seat is made entirely of hard plastic. I press my face close to the window and laugh, thinking about how great it would be if I stuffed my scarf into my own mouth and started pounding on the windows with my feet.
“You okay back there?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. It smells like cherries.”
I make a note of the all the signage in the waiting room. No firearms permitted beyond this point. If you are armed please notify desk supervisor. To the left of that sign is color print-out with some writing taped to the glass. It’s a photo of one of the Philly detectives. Hi. My name is Todd. I really need a date.
About 32 “detectives” come out of the office to visit the vending machine throughout my stay. They all want to know what happened, am I alright and could I describe the suspect, to which I reply, “Yeah. It’s guy you arrested.”
“We arrested him?”
The couple who initially reported the crime and I wait on that bench for over an hour. The woman is a Ph.D. cantidate from UCLA. They’ve only been living in West Philly for 6 months they've already been mugged once and had to deal with a gun battle on their block. The husband apologizes profusely about “dragging” me into this. The wife looks like she is about to cry. “I can’t wait to move back to L.A. This is crazy. Do you think they’ll deliver a pizza here?”
I feel better about the ordeal after meeting a nice girl who’d just been robbed at gunpoint with her 2 year-old. The robber got a bag of sippie cups and her student ID.
Finally, I am escorted into the central office, which, not surprisingly, turns out to be 32 fat white guys watching “The OC.” Joe, the detective who interviews me, laments, “It makes no sense at all. The City can pay millions of dollars for a new sports stadium but we can’t get enough together for another prison. What do you think about that?”
“Um. I think the stadium generates a little more revenue for the city than another jail. Besides, I’m not sure Wachovia would want their name on a brand new prison.”
He nods his head and says, “But think of all the license plates…”
We begin the interview. As an explanation for spelling of the crime scene “video libery,” Joe points out that, unlike me, he did not go to “some fancy college.” To expedite the process, I offer to type the report for him and he accepts.
The head detective looks over my shoulder at the computer screen and puts his hand on my shoulder. “46th street? Oh my goodness sweetie. How long have you lived there? When is your lease up?”
“Oh, not until next September. It’s actually not a bad neighborhood. It's really multi-cultural. You know, ‘up and coming’.”
After giving my name and ID, I am told I need to give an official report at the Southwest Police station. Regardless of the cultural revitalization in my neighborhood, I indicate that I will not be visiting that particular area unless escorted in a police vehicle. The cop opens the back door of the cruiser for me and says, “Uh. Sorry about the smell. I had a whole bunch of guys in there earlier. I’m not sure what they ate…”
I’m lucky. I am unharmed. I’ve lived in West Philly for about 5 years and I’ve never been to the police station or in a cop car. But I highly recommend this form of transport. Police cruisers are exactly like taxis but cheaper, the cops have to open the doors for you (so it’s kind of like a limo service) and the back seat is made entirely of hard plastic. I press my face close to the window and laugh, thinking about how great it would be if I stuffed my scarf into my own mouth and started pounding on the windows with my feet.
“You okay back there?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. It smells like cherries.”
I make a note of the all the signage in the waiting room. No firearms permitted beyond this point. If you are armed please notify desk supervisor. To the left of that sign is color print-out with some writing taped to the glass. It’s a photo of one of the Philly detectives. Hi. My name is Todd. I really need a date.
About 32 “detectives” come out of the office to visit the vending machine throughout my stay. They all want to know what happened, am I alright and could I describe the suspect, to which I reply, “Yeah. It’s guy you arrested.”
“We arrested him?”
The couple who initially reported the crime and I wait on that bench for over an hour. The woman is a Ph.D. cantidate from UCLA. They’ve only been living in West Philly for 6 months they've already been mugged once and had to deal with a gun battle on their block. The husband apologizes profusely about “dragging” me into this. The wife looks like she is about to cry. “I can’t wait to move back to L.A. This is crazy. Do you think they’ll deliver a pizza here?”
I feel better about the ordeal after meeting a nice girl who’d just been robbed at gunpoint with her 2 year-old. The robber got a bag of sippie cups and her student ID.
Finally, I am escorted into the central office, which, not surprisingly, turns out to be 32 fat white guys watching “The OC.” Joe, the detective who interviews me, laments, “It makes no sense at all. The City can pay millions of dollars for a new sports stadium but we can’t get enough together for another prison. What do you think about that?”
“Um. I think the stadium generates a little more revenue for the city than another jail. Besides, I’m not sure Wachovia would want their name on a brand new prison.”
He nods his head and says, “But think of all the license plates…”
We begin the interview. As an explanation for spelling of the crime scene “video libery,” Joe points out that, unlike me, he did not go to “some fancy college.” To expedite the process, I offer to type the report for him and he accepts.
The head detective looks over my shoulder at the computer screen and puts his hand on my shoulder. “46th street? Oh my goodness sweetie. How long have you lived there? When is your lease up?”
“Oh, not until next September. It’s actually not a bad neighborhood. It's really multi-cultural. You know, ‘up and coming’.”
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