I had been living on 43rd street. A block away from the porno shops, peep shows, prostitution... You could buy a gun, the drug of your choice, or a quick blowjob in the parking lot. All while listening to the rants of muslim militants and streetcorner evangelists. Of course, if you were like me, you'd rather go see a double or triple feature for $4 at any one of several crumbling movie houses on the strip. One night you might be in the mood for a Kung Fu Caper or the latest "Bullets and Babes." Another night, it would be Horror or the worst kind of sleaze. Meryl Streep wasn't anywhere near this place. The women in these films usually end up in an alley with their throat cut.

When you attend these late night marathons, you enter somebody's idea of hell. The crowd is sparse, but the few who are there are loud. Many are angry or desperate. You don't go to the bathroom, unless you don't mind being beaten or robbed. You have to piss, you whip it out and piss on the floor or (if you are shy) into a cup. You have to shit? You leave the theater. Frankly, I loved it. It was frightening, but it was real. Typically, I am the only light-skinned "hopes-he-can-pass-as-Latino" guy in the place. I learn to holler at the screen. To laugh loudly at comments blurted by others. And never to look anyone too long in the eye.

Chuck Norris is killing some asshole, as I sit quietly in a nearly empty theater. A large man leaves his seat in the back and approaches from the aisle. Naturally, he chooses to sit next to me. It is not possible that he merely wants to get a better view of Chuck's incredible talent, so what does he want? Should I stay and find out? Or move and risk insulting him? I am not prepared for this. Ten minutes later I realize that he has been going through my coat pockets. My wallet is in my coat pocket. My wallet is not in my coat pocket. Not anymore. I say nothing and wait for him to exit with my money.

Leaving the theater at 3am is always interesting. I have usually finished two quarts of beer and half a pack of non-filtered Camels by the time I hit the street. And it's Mardi Gras every night. Drunken revelers weave in and out of traffic, washing windshields for quarters and scaring tourists for fun. Girls whisper to you from dark piss-stained corners. You think they are girls... The brunette has a cock. Sometimes you are taunted or followed. You learn to swagger... to walk with confidence and determination. One day you buy a knife.

Your roommate's boyfriend spends the night and doesn't leave. You're asked to find another place. Thirty days later... tremendous luck! I go to look at an industrial loft under the Manhattan Bridge. The owner is Chinese. My girlfriend is Chinese. That seals it and I am given the "lease." Keys for cash... no contracts, no signatures. The loft is raw, but huge! The electric and plumbing have been "borrowed" from the paint factory below. There is open conduit and bare wires hanging all over the place. No, it's not safe, but if you're careful... and besides, it's mine. The loft is part of a small waterfront warehouse district that is completely abandoned at night. Cool, I think! I will rule the streets. My own private playground. There is also a large housing project not too far away and a subway near the project. This allows me to continue to stay out late and stumble back in after the cinemas close. The neighbors express concern. About a dozen artists live in this maze-like series of lofts that smell of turpentine and burning oil. I am told that every one of them—middle-class, middle-aged, white—has been mugged traveling to or from the subway at night. Many more than once. Now they all take taxis home. When they can get one. The drivers won't always come to this neighborhood.

But I come from 43rd street. I am smarter than these painters and photographers. And more experienced. I can "pass." After all, I know how to walk directly to the loft. I take the longer route, walking into the empty streets from there. I do not want to show the projects any fear. I want to show that I belong. I will make certain that they come to recognize me... and I to recognize them. Besides, you're much more likely to be observed, maybe even helped, if you walk through their busy back yard. There is always a crowd at the street corner. This is a good thing, not something to be feared. Even so, I begin to practice handling the knife. Making certain that I can pull it out and thrust it in a single motion without hesitation.

One night I exit the subway with my girlfriend. A shabby man passes by, hiding something under his coat. He walks in the direction of the projects. I decide that it would be best to make a detour this night. Not smart. He turns and follows us, about a half a block behind. I do not alert Siu, but I quietly pull my knife and keep it ready. Occasionally, I look back over my shoulder, but he does not seem to have gotten any closer. Maybe I am wrong about him. Up ahead, I notice a group of boys playing midnight basketball in an abandoned lot. This comforts me. I look back again. The man is charging at full speed. He is less than fifteen feet away and seems to be carrying a large butcher knife. Throwing myself between him and Siu, I show him mine. He stops, but no contest. If size is any measure, he wins easily. I scream at Siu to go and get help. She runs around the corner and disappears. The boys have stopped playing ball and gather to watch as the man and I dance in the street with our blades drawn. He demands money, but I notice that he is strangely off-center... Drunk... maybe high. And he looks to be about a hundred years old. I realize that his knife does not have a handle. He's actually holding the blade with both hands. I gain confidence and pick up a brick, threatening to throw it. He begins to laugh at me. I advance... hesitate... advance again. He turns his back on me and walks toward the project, laughing harder. Sensing I have won, I follow him. When he enters the project, I wait outside the door. I do not believe that he lives there, so he has got to come back out. It does not occur to me that there might be a back door.

The boys have gone back to playing ball as if none of this has happened. There is a telephone on the corner, so keeping my eye on the front entrance, I go to the phone and call the police. After about twenty minutes, they arrive. I excitedly attempt to tell them my story. One of the police is distracted by something. I look up and see Siu on the next block, running down the middle of the street in the opposite direction. There are a bunch of guys with sticks and bats running after her. I panic and run off to help. The police turn to follow, but I get there first. Thankfully, Siu is not in any danger. She has gathered a middle-class posse. They have all come to help. Suddenly I know why the man laughed.

Still, the experience was liberating. I did not run away. I held my ground. I had never felt so powerful. I had been ready to die if need be, but this bastard was not going to simply walk away with my wallet. But then I seemed to be chosen... Twice within this same month, I observed attempted muggings. Both times I intervened. After the second incident, I began to worry for my safety. I had placed myself between a potential victim and three assailants. Was the victim glad for my help? Can't say. He didn't stay around for me to ask him. I suddenly realized that I was prepared to die for some asshole who couldn't care less what happened to me.

Maybe he thought I was a cop and could handle it. I don't know. Fortunately, I did handle it. Like the laughing man, I turned my back and walked away. The three men hollered insults and challenges, but they did not follow. I waited for the bullet in the back, but it did not come. For about thirteen seconds, God had existed. Having made my way safely around the corner, I wondered if they had feared I was a madman. And if, perhaps, I was.

Several months later there was another incident. Siu and I had been married and moved to one of Brooklyn's "barrios." A frail old woman attacked Siu on the street with an umbrella, while mouthing Asian slurs. I did not hesitate. I did not think. Before the second blow could land on Siu's shoulder, the old woman was lying flat on the ground. I guess I showed her... I'm from 43rd street. I know how to handle a frail old woman.

The End