Plainclothes Angels (a One-Shot Story)

In my personal urban dictionary, a “plainclothes angel” is someone whose life crosses yours usually once, and for a brief time. But they still have an out-sized impact on your future. One may encounter many such people in life, and some probably go unrecognized. Others might even seem the most unlikely of “angels”– whose impacts are important, though not at first overly angelic.

Such was the case with one guy in this 1967 photo of the American Commons Club fraternity. It was ACC’s 50th anniversary at Denison University, and I’m second from left in the back row. At the time, I had no idea that John Griffin– the laughing fellow to my lower-left in the image (who also seems to be picking the pocket of the poor sod in front of him)– would soon become one of my plainclothes angels.

I was ACC’s newest member, and John was an upper-classman. He hoped to join the U.S. Foreign Service, belonged to the Air Force Reserve Officers’ Training Corps, and had a black belt in karate. I’d soon learn the hard way just how good he was at the latter.

One Heck of a Chop

As described in this 35mmc article, I joined ACC in my second semester. Being a one-man pledge class was a unique experience. Even the first-semester pledges lorded it over me. New pledges did a lot of assigned work around the house, but their most important job was waking people in the morning… as requested on a sign-up sheet.

We slept in a communal bunk room that stretched across the back of the building, and John had a bottom bunk against an end wall. The first time I tried to wake him, a karate chop flew out from under his sheets and into my stomach. It hurt. A lot.

I brilliantly deduced that he knew karate. And on future wake-up calls, I crawled up to his bed, snaked my hand up over the mattress to shake him, and made sure my head was down when his hand slashed out.

All was fine after that first chop.

“A Charmed Life”

Probably as in all fraternities, lower- and upper-classmen mostly kept to their own peer groups. John and I never interacted much socially. So it came as a complete surprise when… during a party and for no apparent reason… he walked straight up to me and said:

“Dave, you’ve lived a charmed life.
But it won’t last forever.
Learn karate.”

As described in the above linked article, my life before Dension was anything but “charmed.” Maybe he meant “sheltered.” But I did as he recommended and signed up for karate. I was amazed when (if one is attacked) our sensei advised:

“If you can… run.
If you can’t run, and don’t see a gun…
use anything in your hands as a weapon.
And if you can’t do that (and you don’t feel a weapon
in your back)… try to neutralize the threat
with what you’ll learn here.
But do that only as a last resort…
and in a measured way.”

It proved to be sage advice. But my karate classes soon ended. While I was talking with a frat brother and leaning in his doorway, someone walked up quietly behind me and smashed his knee into my tailbone. With it fractured in pieces, I could barely walk for weeks. No more karate. But what I’d already learned may have later saved my life at least twice.

Dangerous Business

Journalism can be dangerous! After Denison and a short career in actuarial mathematics, I obtained a Masters Degree in Science Journalism from Boston University. I also:

• Changed careers from mathematics to writing/editing computer and data-networking magazines,
• Traveled a lot to conferences and trade shows,
• And was mugged three times in the process.

One incident was relatively inconsequential. But the other two proved the value of John’s earlier advice:

• In Houston, dressed in a suit, I had to walk from a not-too-great hotel to a nearby press-conference/dinner. A group of drunk young men materialized out of nowhere. One of them sneaked up behind me, wrapped his forearm in a choke hold around my throat, and demanded my wallet. I didn’t feel a weapon pressing into me anywhere, so I used a judo trick we had practiced in class: I clasped my hand tightly around the back of his neck (to hold his head firmly against me) and dropped like a rock to my knees. This pulled him down, forward and off-balance. And to use his momentum against him, when my knees hit the ground, I rocked forward… and easily threw him over my shoulder to the pavement. Then I expertly applied the sensei’s “run-if-you-can” defense all the way back to my hotel. The evening’s dinner conference was off-menu, and a tall stiff drink was on.
• But the second incident occurred back home in Boston, and could have ended very badly. I was invited to show the head of the Science Museum’s planetarium a film I’d done about black holes. (He was interested in using it, but since it was “only Super-8,” I was out of luck.) I left, and walked along an elevated pedestrian bridge toward the Science Museum subway stop. Four young drunks ran up behind me, lifted me (with their hands under my knees and armpits), and carried me toward the bridge’s handrail. They joked about throwing me over… into the traffic below… and I didn’t believe they would. But when they really did start to lift me over the rail, I remembered the sensei’s “weapon-in-hand” advice. I had an umbrella, and smashed its handle into the faces of the guys holding my knees. Regaining my foothold when they went down, I threw “Hurricane Punches” backward over my shoulders into the noses of the fellows at my armpits. They too let go, helped their buddies to their feet, and scrammed.

One wonders: If I hadn’t followed John’s advice, would those events have still occurred? I can’t say.

But What About Me?

I’ve also wondered: For how many people have I been a plainclothes angel– perhaps without even knowing it? I may well have been for the girl in my “Money from Mars” story. And I can think of one other possibility (though I still scratch my head over it):

Late one Friday night, returning home from college for the weekend, I was the only passenger on one of Columbus’s North High Street buses. It picked up another young man in a bad neighborhood south of The Ohio State University. Hiding one of his hands inside his leather jacket, he staggered up the aisle, spun around, and fell hard into the seat beside me.

“Buddy, can you help?” he asked.
“I dunno,” I replied, “What’s wrong?”

He pulled out his hidden hand. It was slick with blood. He’d been knifed in the belly.

“That’s a dangerous wound” I said. “You could die if it’s not treated now. There’s a hospital two stops up. I can help you to the ER.”

“No,” he replied. “Doctors… hospitals… too many questions. There’s a girlfriend four stops up. I’ll go there.”

As the bus slowed for his stop, he stood, moved to leave, briefly turned back toward me, and said “But thanks anyway.”

I’ve often wondered what he wanted me to do? Could my concern and offer of help have been what he needed? Did I help in other ways I’ll never know? Or neither?

A New “Golden Rule”?

I understand that John Griffin is no longer with us. But the minuscule amount of oxygen he used to convey his warning– and my willingness to heed it– may be why I can tell this story today.

Each of us has numerous brief interactions with seeming strangers. Few may be accidental. Many, predestined. And though we do have free will, I’ve also come to believe that our general life paths are pre-planned in such incredible detail that we can work toward our own souls’ missions and (when the universe calls) briefly cross paths with others to help them achieve theirs.

Maybe the familiar Golden Rule– the “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”– needs a rewrite. Maybe it never meant to just “Be nice and do good.” Maybe it always meant– more broadly– to “Help others achieve their missions on Earth… As you would want them to help you achieve yours.”

And the next time a stranger– or indeed anyone— seems to need help, it could be an opportunity to don the wingless powersuit of their plainclothes angel!

Epilogue

Though not part of this story, I had a second memorable experience in the same dangerous neighborhood on Columbus’s North High Street bus route. But this time, it was only 4:45 in the evening, and I was running early for my pick-up at the end of the line. So I got off at an antiques shop I’d seen before. When I entered, a burly man in a black vested suit stood behind the counter.

“We’re closing soon,” he said.
“OK… just let me know,” I replied, peering into his display cases.

Fifteen minutes later– at exactly 5 o’clock– a similarly dressed “Blues Brother” emerged from the back room with two sawed-off shotguns. He handed one to the first man… who looked into my eyes, pumped a shell into his gun’s chamber, and growled “We’re Closed.”

Then and there, I made it a life rule to never again patronize any antiques shop named “Grandma’s Attic.”

–Dave Powell is a Westford, Mass., writer and avid amateur photographer.

A little note from Hamish: If any other current contributors to the 35mmc would like to submit a post like this, then feel free. I will share these on Wednesday afternoons to begin with, more if they get popular.

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