The Neighborhood Watch

I never understood why my father, who was a lawyer, or at least had a law degree was never granted a concealed-carry permit by the city of Philadelphia. Unfortunately that never kept him from carrying his gun on him at times, most notably when he was doing his tour on the Neighborhood Watch.

The way the Neighborhood Watch worked back in 1980s in big cities such as Philadelphia was that the committee would assign two people every night to patrol the neighborhood. There were enough people in the group, usually from forty to fifty, which it usually amounted to one night a month patrolling the neighborhood from eleven p.m. to seven a.m.

The two-person nightly patrol was given flashlights, whistles and a cell phone, which at the time was quite uncommon and very expensive, paid for out of the modest budget of the Neighborhood Watch Committee.

One night as he prepared to go out on his monthly patrol he said to me, “Fuck the whistle. I’m packing heat,” at which point I reminded him that he didn’t have a concealed-carry permit for the 9mm automatic. He said that would only be an issue if he actually used it. That was exactly what concerned me. We’re talking about a man who recorded Death Wish on the Betamax and watched it dozens of times.

I was always concerned that the gun was going to get my father in trouble. He had such a short fuse and just about anything could set him off—a barking dog or people sitting on his stoop.

Predictably enough, after that night on his Neighborhood Watch patrol he was kindly asked not to return, that his services were no longer needed.

Fortunately, the only other time the gun came out, was the time he found his house was being burglarized while he was upstairs napping. When he was awoken by somebody in the house, he quietly called 911 and pulled the 9mm Luger out of the drawer of his nightstand. He quietly went down there stairs to find a burglar, nothing but ass and elbows, buried deep into his stereo cabinet pulling wires.

The click from my father’s automatic caused the burglar to hit his head on the top of the cabinet as he struggled to extricate himself. When he turned around he found himself facing my father seated in a chair holding the gun on him.

“In the state of Pennsylvania I could legally shoot you for unlawfully entering my home,” my father casually informed the burglar. “I’m debating whether to shoot or simply wait for the police to arrive, which should be momentarily.”

The burglar slowly raised his hands and said, “Oh, man, don’t shoot me. I’m only trying to make a living.”

“Have a seat,” my said, indicating the step up to his study.

Fortunately my father was able to control his anger long enough for the police to arrive and take the hapless burglar to jail. That was exactly how my father told me the story.