Knight in the Hood

On my way home from dropping my daughter at her first college semester, I stopped for a couple of days in the Milwaukee area. Sunday afternoon, I decided to eat dinner at my current favorite Cici's Pizza in West Allis, then proceed to drop off a birthday card for my friend, Gino (not her given name). I called Gino before I left for the restaurant. No answer. After I ate, I got on the road and called again. Still no answer but I was leaving town the next morning and I really wanted to drop off the birthday card in person. So I left a message that I was on my way and turned the nose of my car toward North Milwaukee and the hovering presence of large, black clouds.

I made it all the way to my freeway exit before rain began pelting my windshield. I flicked on my wipers and should have been fine. I had driven the route many times and it was not far to Gino's house from there. However, I drive by sight, it was raining pretty hard, and I don't know the area around my standard route. So when I saw the flashing lights of a police car ahead of me, I pulled out of the lane where I needed to be to execute a turn towards my friend's house... and missed it.

That's how I got all turned around in the rain and driving right into the Milwaukee hood. Well, I am not stupid. I knew I was at least close to a very bad section of town and I knew my friend's house was not too far away. I had missed my turn, but I figured that if I turned at the next possible street, I should be able to figure it out. I turned, but none of the street signs were numbered, so I turned again. That brought me out toward a divided road with two lanes going in each direction. Not wanting to waste time sitting at a stop sign, I turned on my signal to make a right. That is when I saw a landmark that looked familiar. So when the traffic from the left cleared so that I could turn, and I saw that there was no traffic coming from the right, I changed my signal and turned left... right onto the raised, cement median.

Plunk! My right, front wheel rolled up onto the median.  I turned my wheel sharply to the left. Ker-plunk! I came down again. Quickly, I turned onto a side street so I would not smash into oncoming traffic. There was a strange scraping sound on the pavement beneath me.

"Oh, no," I thought, my stomach sinking. I turned another corner. The scraping sound did not stop so I parked. I tried to call Gino again. Still no answer. I thought for a moment about getting out of the car in the light rain to change my own tire. Then I looked at the street sign: North 24th. [Eek!] This was very not good. I reached over my passenger's seat and locked the door. Then I debated changing my own tire for about half a second before dialing Gino's Uncle Tim (also not his given name).

"Hello?" The girlfriend's grandson answered the phone.

"Hi, this is Beth. Is Uncle Tim there?"

"No, he not here."

Before I could even open my mouth to ask another question, the line went dead. I thought again about changing my own tire, looked again at the street sign, frowned and dialed the cell phone Uncle Tim and his girlfriend share.

"Hello?" The same grandson answered the cell phone.

"This is Beth again. I am stuck with a flat tire and really need help. Is Uncle Tim there?"

"Yeah, he right here," answered the boy. He handed over the phone.

[Story behind the scenes: Uncle Tim had been outside while the grandson was watching TV. He came inside just after my first call to ask who had been on the phone. The grandson said he did not know. When I called back, Uncle Tim was still standing there.]

No longer a resident of Milwaukee's notorious "hood," this man's reputation alone is still enough to make any damsel in distress feel safe. With Uncle Tim on the other end of the line, I mustered my courage to get out of the car and read the name of the cross street where I was: N 24th St and Atkinson.

"Let me just find my coat... Here it is. I'm on my way," said Uncle Tim. "You hold on. Get in yo' car. I'll be right there."

Minutes after receiving my call, "The Gladiator" (AKA Uncle Tim) rode in to save me, not on a white charger, but in a large, white van. He said he was glad I didn't try to change the tire myself in consideration of where I was stranded, pointed up the street to his church, asked how I had blown it and bent my rim, whipped the old tire off and the spare tire on, all in the space of about 10 minutes. Then, I was led to the warmth and safety of my friend's house where the door was already open and I was invited to spend the night. (It turns out the reason Gino was not answering her cell phone is that she had turned the ringer down during church and had forgotten to turn it up afterwards.)

After Gino came to her door to greet me, Uncle Tim waited for a few moments then took her aside to tell her of the day's "family" tragedy -- which, shockingly, did not show up on the evening news but MAY just show up in a later post to this blog. Let me just call first and ask out of respect for the dead if it is okay for me to write the story.

The next morning, The Gladiator drove me to visit his people, have my bent rim repaired and buy a used tire for dirt cheap prices. I now owe my Knight in the Hood a Red Velvet cake. The End... for now.