I'm going to tell a little story, whether you like it or not, about a recent Friday night Philadelphia adventure I had involving a broken down Grand Marques, a homeless man named Erving, and the American Automobile Association. This story may have very little relevance to the world of Shadowrun, but I don't care.

It all started with a phone call from a friend living in up state New York I hadn't heard from for a very long time and, having nothing better to do but write stuff for my page over the weekend, I decided to drive up for a visit. The time was about eight p.m. and I figured I could make the drive in a little under three hours, barring the high possibility that I would receive my token speeding ticket. (Cops come from as far as Nebraska just so they can ticket me. I believe it's some kind of contest.) In any case I grabbed some stuff, stopped by a drug store for a Cherry Coke and some cigarettes, and walked to my car.

I should probably mention the fact that I live in downtown Philadelphia. If I was any more downtown than I already am I would be living in the mayor's office. And if you've ever lived in the dead center of a major metropolitan area you know the significance of a Friday night. If you haven't I'll lay out the general mood for you: Chaos. During the week everybody works their nine to five jobs and goes home and goes to sleep and when the brain realizes that it doesn't have to stick to this routine for a few days it releases a hormone to the rest of the body which tells it that no boss will yell at it if it decides to try to negotiate the cost of a prostitute, whether the person it's negotiating with is a pimp or not. But I'll get to that later. What's important is the fact that I managed to drive something along the lines of five blocks before my car decided it didn't want to be a car anymore and would be happier being a road block.

I hit the gas at a major intercity intersection and my '87 Lincoln Mercury Grand Marques simply died. No sputtering, no jerking, just a nice, simple transition from a fully functioning automobile to a sedan shaped rock. I quickly glanced around and realized from the number of individuals drinking large amounts of alchohol related substances concealed in soggy paper bags that there were around seventeen billion better places this could have occurred. I tried to start the car. It was turning over fine, it just wasn't starting. Two of the many individuals standing on the corner approached and instructed me to pop the hood.

The first thing that crossed my mind was the possibility that the moment I popped the hood the individuals would rip out every available component from my engine and run off. I told them to hold on, and tried to start the car again. Nothing. Ok, so here's the situation: I'm in a not so hot area, there are two bums who want me to pop my hood, I'm blocking a lane on a busy street, and my car is not going to start. What do I do?

One of the first rules I established for myself when I moved to the city was to never trust anybody. It was simple enough and worked rather well as I had yet to be screwed over. After a moment of thought I decided this rule needed an appendix. I remembered seeing some of these bums on this corner before and although I was in a fairly bad area, it was surrounded by fairly good areas so A: if they grabbed some parts where would they go and B: if they did I'd know where to find them and would have no trouble figuring out a way to exact revenge. Finally there was the fact that ninety percent of the bums you meet are generally good people, despite what current stereotypes portray. I finally realized I had to trust these people as the current situation didn't put me in a position where I could get away with NOT trusting them. If I didn't do something soon the cops would show up with a ticket book and a tow truck and I'd have to spend the better part of July trying to get my car back. After pondering this for a moment I opened the hood.

The two looked around the engine, with me carefully keeping watch, and went through the traditional motions one goes through with a stalled vehicle, checking wire connections, hoses, etc. and, of course, asking me a question which would be repeated some five thousand times over the next four hours, namely: "Do you have gas in it?". I tried starting the car a few more times to no avail and when the two bums offered to push it to a place across the street and off the road I accepted, knowing full well that it was going to cost me a few bucks.

The second rule I established when I moved to Philadelphia is to never give anybody money they didn't earn. I have yet to "bum" anybody anything but a cigarette and through the hundreds (only mild exaggeration this time) of attempts people have made to get money out of me I have yet to break this rule. Sure I'll loan a friend a few bucks or buy them lunch or something but nobody who's approached my on the street has gotten a cent. On the other hand I am more than happy to hand out cash to someone who has assisted me in some way as I believe it is fair compensation for work rendered, and whether they spend it on food or crack makes no difference. It's their money, they earned it, and they can do whatever the hell they want with it.

After a pulse raising push across six lanes of traffic I was off the road and up on a sidewalk where I would be safe from the cops so long as I stayed with the car. I decided to take a look under the hood myself and quickly developed a longing for my old '77 Grand Marques which had an engine that looked a lot less like the inside of a nuclear reactor, complexitywise, than my '87. The individuals who pushed me introduced themselves as Willie and Erving and, in turn, I introduced myself.

Ok, so I screwed up and broke rule number three: Never give them your name. Now I know that the use of an alias or street name in the real world is usually associated with an attempt to be "mysterious" but you don't really realize its practicality until you start dealing with individuals who, for all you know, could be heroin addicts willing to drop your name to the cops just for the fun of seeing you get screwed over. In normal, civilized situations giving you name is ok, and I don't go around introducing myself by a call at work or anything, but on the street you're better off with people knowing as little about you as humanly possible. Normally, in street related situations, I introduce myself as B.J. (stop laughing) or, Blackjack. I don't know where my head was. Probably 100% devoted to trying to figure me a way out of my situation.

So I bummed Willie and Erving a cigarette and they asked if I could help them out with a few bucks for giving me the push. I handed over twelve, more than enough, and the two vanished, as would be expected. I tried to start the car a few more times and finally gave up and decided to call AAA for a tow from a phone that was, thank god, within line of sight of my car. After being placed on hold for a good half hour they informed me that a truck would be out within the hour. Satisfied I returned to my car, positioned myself on the hood, lit up a cigarette, and waited.

And waited....and waited....and waited. About forty five minutes had past when Erving reappeared and we began to chat about the his life, the city, the fact that he blew his share of the twelve dollars on weed, that he was hungry, and that he should get his priorities straight. I found out he was homeless, in drug rehab, that he usually slept closer to downtown where a security guard would watch over him, that he was intelligent, articulate, and that we both agreed that people who smash out car windows for no reason are the ones that should be on death row because it's crimes like that which piss you off the most. Another individual showed up and tried to convince me to give him five bucks so he could get his ex brother in law, who he said was a mechanic, to come up and take a look at my car. Yeah, right. I informed him he wasn't going to get a dime from me and he left and didn't come back.

Two hours had passed since my call to AAA when Erving offered to walk up the street and see if there was an open garage. He returned a few minutes later with a friend of his who he said knew a lot about cars so I popped the hood and the man systematically checked every wire, connection, hose, and mechanism with an aura of professionalism which became even more impressive when I found out that he, too, was homeless. We tried a few tricks and after everything had failed he informed me he had tried everything he knew and that, without tools, he could do nothing else. I gave him five bucks for the effort and he went on his way, but not before I got his name and information on where he usually hung out, just in case. A few more people came up and attempted to get money from me but, as midnight rolled around, it was just me and Erving again.

We chatted for a while but as the night grew longer my thoughts once again focused on trying to find myself a way out of this mess. The late night crowd was getting kind of rowdy and, although the street was nearly empty, the multitudes of people who drove by began to get irritating, particularly the individual who asked if I was the pimp for a young prostitute standing on the corner. (I am not making that up.)  And, again, although this was not an incredibly bad area of town there was still the very real possibility that, and I'm not implying this in a racist way, somebody might decide to take a pot shot as the white guy sitting on his car at one in the morning. I already had planned to repay Erving for his moral and physical support and finally asked him, as a final favor, if he could assist me in moving my car off of the road and into a nearby parking space which had recently opened up. He was more than happy to assist and when I confided with him that I was going to simply give up, leave the car for the night, go home, and call AAA again in the morning he informed me that I'd better put everything in the trunk or somebody was sure to mess with it. "Even the scraps of paper," he said "because somebody's gonna wonder what's underneath them." Together we emptied out the vehicle.

With the car empty, the trunk closed, and the Club deployed on the steering wheel I asked him if there's any way I could repay him. He was very straight forward, asking if I could give him a few bucks so he could get a beer or two. Unfortunately my cash situation wasn't too good at this point in time and I offered to get him a few beers from my apartment, which was a few blocks away, and whatever change I could find. He said that was ok and together we began to walk to my dwelling. About half way there I stopped and asked him to wait in an alley for me to return.

Rule number four: Never let them know where you live. A very, very important rule. I admit he was, essentially, a bum and probably harmless. But you never know. You see, you can accidentally reveal your name, your past, and your emotions and usually get away with it, even if the individual you revealed them to has adverse goals. In situations like this one the individual usually doesn't have the resources to effectively use this information to screw you over. But giving somebody your address is like giving them the dictionary to your life. Every part of you, every skeleton in the closet, every evil you have committed, everything you own, and everything you are exists in your home in some way, shape, or form. And all they have to do is kick in the door to get to them.

I stopped by my apartment, grabbed a few beers, some spare change, and a box of cigarettes, threw them into a bag and returned to the alley. Erving was still there, and was actually surprised when I returned. He didn't expect anything less than me screwing HIM over. I didn't realize the perception of the possibility of getting the shaft was a two way street. I handed him the bag and asked him if he could keep an eye on my car for me. He nodded and we were about to part when I decided to try something that may sound familiar, even funny, to anyone who has ever seen this line in a movie or used it in a role-playing game. I don't even know why I said it, perhaps just to see if it would work:

"You don't know me. I never gave you anything. And if you remember this I promise to help you out some time in the future."

Again he nodded and then turned away, his wiry figure slowly disappearing into the Philadelphia night. I returned home, smoked a final cigarette, and went to sleep.

I won't go into what happened the next day; my continuing AAA hell, the gruff tow truck driver, and the Sylvester Stallone lookalike who finally fixed my car. What I will mention is the fact that, as I walked to my car early Saturday morning I passed Erving sitting on some stairs with a clear line of sight to the vehicle I had asked him to keep an eye on last night. I stopped for a moment, silently handed him a few cigarettes, and, with a mutual smile, we both parted, me heading toward my car and he toward the towering sky scrapers of downtown. His job was done. For now.

Sound familiar?