robbery assault and battery

From the time he was discharged from military service at the end of World War II until the day he entered a hospital to have that pain in his stomach checked on — only to die ten days later, my father worked. And he worked and worked and worked.

The day after he arrived home from his assigned duty of keeping the world safe from Nazis, my father walked into a Penn Fruit supermarket in his West Philadelphia neighborhood and asked for a job. With absolutely no experience and zero prior interest, my father became an apprentice meat cutter. He trained with a seasoned butcher every day. He learned the ins and outs of hacking up a full side of beef into saleable cuts that would entice Mrs. "Shopping For My Family" consumer. He caught on fast and soon became very adept at his new — and now chosen — career. He became a reliable meat cutter and after a few years, he was named manager of the meat department. Over the course of his tenure at Penn Fruit, his acknowledged skills were the source of various transfers within the supermarket chain. His know-how was called upon to raise the production — and the profits — of a slagging meat department in lesser-performing stores. He'd train the staff on how to cut meat efficiently and for optimum resale. He'd stay at a particular store until the department could run as though he was in charge... and then he'd be transferred to another store where he could "work his meat-cutting magic."

After many years of working within the supermarket business, my father was promoted to store manager. He was able to apply his understanding of maintaining a profitable meat department to an entire store and all of its various other departments. Once again, the company saw my father's prowess in turning a profit that they continued to send him in to underperforming stores to turn things around. 

Some of the stores my father worked in were in some pretty rough neighborhoods. A supermarket was a regular target for armed robberies in broad daylight. Many of the stores in which my father worked were robbed. Several times. One store was situated across the street from the known headquarters of a local motorcycle gang. That store was robbed — on average — once a month. However, as many times as my father's store was robbed, it was always on my father's day off. Not once was he ever in a store when it was held up. Each time, the robbers dealt with my father's assistant manager or the head cashier. My father always seemed to be elsewhere. He'd get a call — after the incident — from the store while we were in Atlantic City or even just lounging around the house. He'd interrupt his day off and drive down to the store or to the police station. But he really had little to offer, as he never experienced the actual robbery.

Penn Fruit eventually closed its doors and ceased operations. My father took a job with Penn Fruit's rival Pantry Pride, who, after almost a decade, also went out of business. In that time, though, several Pantry Pride stores were robbed — also always on my father's day off.

Later in his life, my father took jobs in independent grocery stores. He never had difficulty finding a job because skilled meat cutters are a dying breed. Stores were only too happy to hire someone with so many years of experience regardless of their age. 

In the late 1980s, my father was working in a family-owned supermarket in West Philadelphia, just a few blocks from where he began his career. My father was busy cutting meat at the rear of the store where the meat department was located. Little did he know that two men brandishing handguns burst into the cash room near the store's entrance and demanded everything. The store was owned by a family man in his forties and the man's father, who was quite the entrepreneur. He owned a lot of properties in West Philly and was responsible for bringing a thriving business district to the area. He was a hard worker and a proud self-made businessman... and he'd be goddamned if he was going to allow a couple of punks to rob him of his hard-earned income. Guns or no guns, the father — unarmed himself — lunged at one of the gunmen. The robber pulled the trigger and shot the father square in the chest. He fell backwards into an office chair as the panicked robbers fled with what they had gathered up to that point — which was a couple of bags of cash, mostly ones, fives and tens.

One of the gunmen ran out the front door. The other headed towards the back of the store. The first door he found on his proposed escape route was the cooler for the meat department where my father was busily cutting and wrapping the day's offerings. The gunman breached the heavy plastic sheets that kept the cold in and startled my father. He pointed the gun in my father's direction and loudly demanded, "Which way is out?" My father could not speak. He just pointed in the direction of a metal door that led to the alley behind the store. The gunman left and headed to the metal door. He opened it and found himself in the alley... where two police officers were waiting for him. Meanwhile, the first robber who ran out the front door holding a bag of money in one hand and a gun in the other was also met by a Philadelphia patrol car who just happened to be driving down West 60th Street and turned on to Cedar Avenue. Both gunmen were arrested.

This was the first time in six decades that my father was in a supermarket that was robbed. He was questioned by police, looking for his account of the events of that day. My father gave his honest answer. (This was a rarity, as my father was a longtime, habitual liar.) He told the police he was very sorry that he was unable to describe the robber, despite the fact that he stood just a few feet away when he burst into the meat department. My father explained that all he saw was the gun. A gun he described as being as big as a cannon — the barrel as long as a pool cue. He said the gun practically took up the whole room. He went on to say the only thought in his head was that he would never see his family again. The police politely thanked him for what little help he could offer. He was not questioned again and was not asked to appear as a witness in the subsequent court trial.

My father worked in two more supermarkets after leaving the one that was robbed. Considering that my father loved to fabricate stories and embellish upon actual events, he never spoke about that robbery ever again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like

For twenty-eight years, two 10-speed bikes stood motionless on my back porch. Previously, they resided in the bicycle storage room at my in-law's apartment building in Atlantic City. Before that, they took up an inconvenient hunk of floor space in my fiance's (now my wife of 30 years) living room. My bike got quite a workout in the early 1980s. I would often ride it late at night from my job on the edge of North Philadelphia, weaving dangerously in and out of traffic and across the cobblestone streets of Olde City to the Queen Village condo where I spent weekends with my future spouse. In the summer, after we were married, Mrs. P and I would wake early and ride our bikes on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk, like we did when were were kids.

But then we bought a house and moved to the suburbs. Then we had a baby. Then the baby grew up and started school. And then leisure time slipped away, replaced by a bustling, busy life. And our bikes were soon ignored, relegated to the back porch, where they would lean on their extended kickstands undisturbed, dust gathering, tires deflating and dry-rotting, rust forming here and there.

Last Saturday, our neighbors Rae and O. had a yard sale and invited us to supplement their cast-offs with anything we'd like to add. My wife surveyed our three-story, six bedroom vault of accumulation and selected a couple of seldom-used beach chairs and a few rattan pieces that had worn out their welcome. After a quick dusting to make them presentable (and saleable), I lugged them across the street, and deposited them on my neighbor's front lawn where they stayed for approximately two minutes when a woman bought all of our stuff. 

O. and my wife had previously discussed the sale of our bikes. O. told us that, through an ad he placed on craigslist, a man was coming to see a bike that he was offering. O. invited us to bring over our two bikes and maybe the customer would be interested in a package deal. I dragged our two bikes from our back porch and wheeled them unsteadily across the street on flattened tires. O. opened the fortified high wooden gate to his backyard and I parked our 10-speeds next to his in a secluded area next to his large recycling bin.

This afternoon, O. called my wife in a panic. "Did you take your bike back?," he asked.

"No. Of course not.," she replied, "Why?"

O. gulped. "Someone stole our bikes! I moved them from my yard to the front porch because it was raining and now they're gone!"

"What?!?," my wife exclaimed in disbelief.

"Actually," he continued, "they left one of yours. The silver one. They took my bike and the red one." (The silver one that the thieves deemed unworthy was mine.) O. was very upset. A native Israeli, he began ranting about his disappointment in America. Mrs. P suggested that the police be notified. O. seemed confused. 

"Why call the police?," he asked.

Mrs. P explained that the proper procedure in this case was to file a police report. Then, officers will be extra concerned with the possibility of another theft. Not fully convinced, O. reluctantly called the police. (Actually, Rae made the call.) A short time later, a police car pulled up in front of our house. An officer emerged and headed straight over to Rae and O.'s house. My wife watched as the officer returned to his cruiser. He sat behind the wheel busying himself with some paper work, when My wife approached and introduced herself.

"Hi," she said, "I wanted to tell you that one of the bikes that was taken is mine."

"Yeah," the policeman smiled, "your neighbor told me. As a matter of fact, we just got a red bike over in the evidence locker."

"Really?," my wife questioned.

"Yeah," he continued, " a man just up the street gave a report earlier." The officer looked down at his clipboard and, in his best "Sgt. Joe Friday," read "just the facts" straight from the scribbled form. "He said that around four o'clock today he saw four black teenagers* walk up the front path of your neighbor's house, up to the front porch and come back down with two bikes. They ditched the red one on someone's lawn halfway down the block."

My wife followed the officer over to the police station. She was led to the evidence locker to identify the bike. The officer unlocked the gate and, sure enough, there was Mrs. P's red bike in all its dusty, flat-tire glory. The officer ripped a big "EVIDENCE" sticker off of the frame and my spouse maneuvered the bike into the back of her SUV.

When I got home from an evening doctor's appointment, I wheeled our two bikes — my wife's newly-returned red one and my unwanted silver one — back to the safety of our back porch, where, perhaps, they will reside for the next twenty-eight years without another harrowing adventure.

* * * * * * U P D A T E * * * * * *

The mighty Cheltenham Township Police force set up a surveillance team specifically focused on nabbing the wave of bicycle crime sweeping the area. On Wednesday, July 30, a vicious trio of youngsters — ranging in age from 8 to 15 — were apprehended by authorities. The gang's M.O. was snatching unattended bikes from porches, driveways, yards and unlocked garages. The little bastards were caught in the act. Thanks to the fine work by the Cheltenham Police, the reign of terror is over.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* the officer's actual words

law man has put an end to my running

On June 3, 1999, Clayton Lockett, a 23 year-old just ten months out of prison on an embezzlement charge, stole a car, picked up two accomplices and headed to the home of Bobby Bornt. Lockett had made a deal with Bornt to cover up an unwanted tattoo for twenty dollars. Bornt had given payment to a mutual acquaintance, but Lockett claimed he never received it.

Bobby Bornt was asleep on his sofa when his front door was kicked in. Clayton Lockett burst in brandishing a shotgun. He cracked Bornt in the head with the butt of the gun and, as Bornt lay bleeding, the three intruders ransacked the home. Stephanie Neiman, a recent high-school graduate, stopped by with a friend to ask Bornt to a party. The two young girls innocently walked in through the open front door, in the middle of the assault on Bornt.

Lockett and his cohorts bound Bornt with duct tape. They beat Stephanie and beat and raped Stephanie's friend and then forced the three outside to Bornt's and Stephanie's vehicles. Lockett took the lead and drove with Bornt. The two accomplices rode with Stephanie and her friend. Lockett drove to a remote area of Kay County, Oklahoma. He ordered his accomplices to dig a hole while he dragged Stephanie's friend off to rape her again. When he returned, they bound Stephanie and her friend with duct tape. Lockett shot Stephanie twice and kicked her into the hole, giving instruction to cover her up, despite her obvious writhing and audible moans. He drove everyone back to Bornt's house. He let Bornt and Stephanie's friend out, threatening to come back and kill them if they contacted the police. 

They next morning, the two survivors of the ordeal went to the local police.

Lockett was picked up and questioned by police, eventually admitting guilt. At trial, he was convicted of first degree murder, as well as eighteen additional counts, including rape, assault, conspiracy and kidnapping. Lockett was sentenced to 2,285 years in prison for the lesser charges, but received the death penalty for committing premeditated murder.

On April 29, 2014, Clayton Lockett lay strapped to a gurney in a small, cinder-block room in Oklahoma State Prison. His outstretched arms were rendered immobile under the thick leather restraints encircling his wrists. At 6:23 pm, the first of a deadly three-part "cocktail" was injected into the IV tubes that had previously been inserted into Lockett's arm. A minute later he was declared unconscious. But, to the surprise of the prison staff, Lockett began to exhale and writhe on the table. He lifted his head up and muttered, "I'm not" and "Something's wrong." The two remaining drugs were administered, in spite of Lockett's actions. He thrashed more, until, at 7:03 pm, he was pronounced dead. It was determined that he had suffered a heart attack.

A lot of controversy has surrounded the so-called "botched" execution. Several pharmaceutical companies have forbidden their products to be used for government-sanctioned lethal injection. In a scramble to find a substitute, the Oklahoma Department of Corrections used an untested combination of drugs on Lockett. A similar mixture had been used in Florida in 2013, but the dosages varied. A large number media outlets have condemned the incident as "barbaric" and "inappropriate in a civilized society." Even the White House said the execution "fell short of humane standards."

Taking his actions of June 3, 1999 into consideration, I think that while Lockett was squirming uncomfortably on that gurney, someone should have kicked him in his fucking head.

But, that's my personal opinion.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

police on my back

In 2004, after many visits to Walt Disney World in Florida, my family and I headed west to Walt's original theme park — Disneyland.

In the late afternoon, we found ourselves on Harbor Boulevard in Anaheim via Las Vegas after a four-hour drive through the Mojave Desert. Our hotel, a Holiday Inn on Harbor at the corner of Ball Road, overlooked the back of It's a Small World. Peeking out from just beyond the tops of some shielding trees was the ominous white spire of Space Mountain.

Since it was so late in the day, we decided to experience Disneyland beginning bright and early the next morning. We set out to briefly explore the neighborhood and to look for a store to purchase some snacks and drinks to sneak into the park the next day. We climbed into our rental car and drove north on Harbor Boulevard toward a huge knot of strip malls, open-air shopping centers and fast-food restaurants.

A huge red and white Target sign beckoned to us like a familiar friend. We knew Target and we love Target. They're sure to have everything we needed. My wife navigated the car through the crowded parking lot towards the entrance which faced away from the busy street. We scouted the area for an open parking space when we spotted a rather large section noticeably absent of cars. As we drew closer, we saw seven or eight Anaheim police vehicles parked in a semi-circle in the open area. We pulled around the last cruiser and were greeted by the sight of a dozen or so uniformed officers, some with their guns drawn. Sitting on the ground, cross-legged, was a young man. His arms were up and bent at the elbows. His hands were resting on the crown of his head, the fingers laced. He looked up at the policemen, some of whom had a revolver pointed at him. He looked worried.

We quickly found a parking space at the other end of the lot. As we entered the store, my son noted that just a few blocks from the dire scene playing out before our eyes was The Happiest Place on Earth. We laughed.

I'm sure that young man did not.