Philadelphia Streets by Night

It is not late, but it feels like it is. In mid-November, the sunset in Philadelphia is at 4:45PM. Walking along Ludlow Street, adjacent to St. John the Evangelist Church, it was difficult not to acknowledge my own privilege. Beneath a scaffolding structure, sleeping bags, blankets, plastic bags, and winter coats were strewn on the sidewalk. Several human beings were nestled, half buried, among the piles of materials used for bedding. When I was a boy scout, I had subzero sleeping bag from an army surplus store for winter camping. I am sure, on that sidewalk, there were many who would have gladly used it on this night. It is easy to avert one’s eyes when you see people in need navigating a city during the day; however, seeing half a dozen or so lonely people, huddled together, preparing to sleep rough on a cold night, is difficult to ignore. As humans, we all need something; some need more than others.

While walking in Philadelphia, I often find that the soundtrack in my head is primarily comprised of Bruce Springsteen singing about the streets of Philadelphia. Such was the case on this evening. Being a flâneur at night is not necessarily dangerous, but the deep shadows create a sense of mystery while roaming a city. Perhaps the most dangerous element of such a walk is the likelihood of tripping on uneven sidewalks. But the darkness obscures people, things and intentions. At the same time, it lowers inhibitions for some.

Walking down a residential street, I passed a woman smoking a cigarette outside her front door. I was having difficulties finding my destination, I had an incorrect address it turns out, so I passed her twice during my search. She looked at me nonchalantly, with her left hand propped against the doorjamb and her right hand caressing her cigarette. As I passed her front window, I noticed that the only source of light was toward the back of her house and her austere living room was lit indirectly. There was no one else at home, I imagined. She appeared to be in no hurry to finish her cigarette, was waiting for no one in particular, and had nowhere to go. My quick espy of her, wondering if she was about to face a lonely Saturday night, led me to consider Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis for the next few blocks.

I was to meet A & M for a drink at a local bar, Dirty Franks at 13th and Pine, which has a long history beginning with its opening a month prior to the end of prohibition. [A story for another time perhaps]  In the dark it was difficult to discern any sign, and I was already confused about the location. I watched a young couple in the mid-twenties, walk into this building and figured it had the be the place. It is a windowless structure with a drawing of Frank Sinatra, the young version, on the side of the building. Upon entering, I encountered the same young couple being compelled to show their identity to demonstrate they were of age. A bouncer, who was old enough to make me wonder if he could manage a brawl should one occur, was closely inspecting their driver’s licenses. When the couple were granted admission, I reached for my wallet, and the bouncer gruffly barked, “If you must!” I am not as young as I used to be.

The bar has a long, horseshoe shaped bar and wooden booths that were constructed when the average person was smaller than today. Harkening back to decades of history, Dirty Franks still has pinball machines, dart boards, and dozens or pictures and artifacts collected over the years. I took a seat at an empty booth and waited for A & M to arrive. The Saturday night chatter, facilitated by the social lubricant of alcohol, was lively and robust. A woman with dark hair, sitting at the bar just a few feet from me at the bar, was relaying a story about a recent evening that included drinking. The culmination of her story was, upon returning home, she decided to forego dinner and to have a bath instead. She woke up the next morning, naked in her bathtub, with no water. From the volume of her voice, and the expletive-laden description of that night, I imagined that she might have a similar story to tell the following Saturday night.

A & M breezed into the bar a few minutes later. After drinks were ordered, perfunctory questions about dinner, shopping and families were asked, our attention was distracted by the arrival of a French bulldog at the booth next to ours. The dog in question was quite popular. Since it was the cutest, and only canine, in the bar, it became the subject of several selfies with fellow patrons. M became absorbed by the plight of a hapless woman, desperately trying to attract the attention of a couple of men, while learning how to play darts. Because I had my back to drama, M gave me a play-by-play description of the scene that rivaled several sports announcers. But soon she grew quiet and continued to observe without a word.

The bar began to fill up. The effects of alcohol began to kick in. Sing-alongs and serenades punctured the buzz of bar conversations. One man, DeVaughn, who had been sitting at the bar for a while, saw an empty seat at our booth and insinuated himself in our conversation. I am quite sure he saw us as easy marks for free drinks and a little pocket money. After he enquired about out marital status (all married, but not to each other), he told us a confusing story about the last time he had been in Dirty Franks. He said that an eight-year old had been singing karaoke, an odd occurrence no doubt. He marveled that she was allowed in the bar; I wondered why this bar would have karaoke. DeVaughn began a story about how a guy, someone he trusted, had just stolen his wallet. His story continued with that he would not be able to be able to get any money until Monday. M snapped out of her trance of studying hapless women learning to play darts, or pretending not to know how, to announce that it was time for us to go. I was ready to hear the twisted machinations of a story that led to the guy needing money. I was willing to buy him a drink and slide him a dollar or two. M was not going to have any of it. We excused ourselves and made our way back out onto the cold streets in this city of brotherly love.

Walking back to our hotel, we passed a late-night cookie and dairy shop, situated adjacent to an adult toy store. Warm cookies and milk before bedtime is a siren call for many, including my companions. There is something genius about a company that will deliver warm cookies and cold milk to college students until 3AM. I am unsure about the success of the delivery part of the business, but there was a long line for cookies and ice cream. We all went in, but I declined an offer of cookies and/or ice cream. Soon, a group of self-described “parents from the suburbs” entered. The three couples were enjoying themselves having dinner and exploring establishments that were unlikely to be found in sedate suburban neighborhoods. One of the men was chuckling about the irony of the sex shop next door to a storefront selling milk and cookies. A woman, with dark bobbed hair, stood next me and began a conversation. One of the men asked where her husband was, she nodded that he was outside eating ice cream. We continued our small talk, as she was curious about the nature of the establishment. She picked up the glossy piece of paper that served as a menu, and asked, “What would you recommend? The chocolate chip, macadamia nut, or the vibrator?” I was being baited; nonplussed I replied, “It really depends on what you are in the mood for.” Within seconds, her husband came in and was ready for more food. He began to engage me in conversation, and his wife grew quiet.

A & M had their late-night treat and we continued our journey back to the hotel. M was put off by the softness, and therefore messiness, of her warm cookie, She wrapped it up and the cookie somehow found its way into my coat pocket. Once again, we passed those sleeping outside St John the Evangelist.