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Adrift on the Stereotype Sea |
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Copyright © 2001 by Dave Badtke |
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The two stories that follow, the first concerning a robbery in Naples, the second a gun in Benicia, are narrative jetsam tossed into the stereotype sea on which we sail, relentlessly seeking safe havens. My first story finds my wife and me journeying to Italy a few weeks ago to visit our younger son who had finished his semester abroad, studying Latin, Italian and classical history. He met us at the DaVinci airport in Rome, and the next day the three of us went by Eurostar train first to Venice, which was wonderful, and then to Florence, which was decidedly different from Forster’s Room with a View. From Florence we took the Eurostar to Naples where we needed to transfer to the Circumvesuviana train which would take us to Sorrento, a ride of a little more than an hour, where we would rent a car and drive the tortuous, precipitous, scooter-and-bus-clogged, too-small-for-two-car road to Ravello, a beautiful village overlooking the Mediterranean. We arrived in Naples, and Joe went to buy tickets. He returned saying that the next train left in five minutes. We had to hurry, he said, and we ran to catch the train, our small-wheeled bags in tow, though I’m not sure why we were in such a hurry: We were on vacation and didn’t need to rush to anything, the Sorrento train left every half hour, and the car rental office was closed for siesta until 3:00. It was 12:30. Regardless, when Americans are given a goal, in this case catch the train with no time to spare, we strive to achieve that goal, even if it makes little sense. Italy is known for theft. When we talked of Italy before leaving on vacation, many told us tales of theft that they or acquaintances had experienced, and Naples has one of the worst reputations in Italy. But we weren’t staying in Naples. We were just passing through. We were prepared. We arrived at the platform and found it rather crowded. We huddled, like settlers in circled wagons, because Joe had told us that if we stayed close together and were attentive, the chance that we would be robbed was reduced. He told us of students at the Centro who had had wallets stolen out of their backpacks, but, he added, they had made the mistake of keeping valuables in an outside pocket of their bags, or of wandering into crowds, or of being too close to riders on a bus. My son and I had our wallets in our front pockets, and my wife kept her valuables in a small black pouch that hung from her neck. I watched Joe and noticed that he frequently put his hand in his pocket when he was near others. I started doing the same. As we waited for the train, I noticed a fellow walking along the platform, looking down, not at people, looking, I imagined, at luggage, purses and pockets. I watched him closely, waiting for him to look up, so that I could look him in the eye. I wanted him to know that I was ready, that I could take care of myself and my family. When he finally did look up, fleetingly, there was no sign of recognition or emotion, perhaps because he was just distracted and, like us, waiting for the train. The crowded train arrived. I mentioned that it looked as though we might ride the entire way standing up. I wish instead that I had suggested that we wait for the next train. The train slowed, but continued on, moving past us. We weren’t far enough down on the platform and had to run towards the end of the train. A large number of people were trying to get on the last car. My son and wife went on ahead, with the first wave of people, and we were separated. I could see Joe through the train window moving into the car to get a seat. I stood back, waiting for the rush of people to subside, but then became concerned that the train might leave without me. Feeling uneasy, knowing that I was doing something that I shouldn’t, my concern that I would be left behind confounding my desire to stay clear of the crowd, I began to panic; I began to push into the people who were blocking my way. And the crowd, not an individual, not any one person, began pushing back, flowing around me, some saying scusi, pushing me one way and another. My fear heightened that I would be left behind, and I pushed harder, imagining that the car doors would soon close, leaving me behind. What thought I had for my belongings was focused on my camera bag, my backpack, and my small suitcase, all of which occupied my left hand. If I had any concern for my wallet, it vanished as I moved into the car, trying to keep myself upright by reaching for a vertical pole. The car door closed and the train moved out of the station, but the car was less crowded than I thought it would be. Some of those who had been keeping me from the car had either got off or moved very quickly to another part of the train. Given the struggle I had just experienced, I thought, where are all the people? Until I was 12, I kept my wallet in my back pocket. I went to see “Some Like it Hot” at the Strand Theater in Paw Paw, Michigan, and left my wallet behind when it slipped out of my pocket. I lost $10, a fortune at the time, and vowed never to put my wallet in my back pocket again. I have been conscious of my wallet ever since, checking my front pocket every few minutes for more than 40 years, patting my front pocket to make sure my wallet is there, so it was not long after I boarded the train in Naples that I realized my wallet, with cash, credit cards and driver’s license, was gone. I was stunned. I thought I was prepared but I had been stupid and become easy prey for a pickpocket. People had pushed me and someone had easily taken my wallet. Pushed from all sides, I never felt the thief reach deep into my pocket. My second story happened as my wife and I, returning from Concord last Saturday evening, drove over the Benicia Bridge. We were in the Fastrak lane and had to stop behind another car because a van had stopped next to the toll booth. I thought the driver might be having car trouble, but then a young man dressed in a graduation gown with cash in hand got out and walked over to the next toll window. The driver had obviously entered the wrong lane and needed to pay his toll. By the time the young man walked back from the booth, the driver of the car stopped between us and the van was standing next to his open door. To judge from his body language, the motion of his hands, the way he moved his head, he was not saying nice things to the young graduate, who was probably riding high on a very important day in his life. The irate driver in swept-back sunglasses, driving an old, white, beat up sports car, was waving something in his left hand that looked like a change purse. The young man started to get back into the van but then changed his mind and decided to confront the irate driver. He walked towards him, and both men tensed, their body language aggressive, broadcasting their willingness to strike if necessary, for when we are threatened, we quickly regress tens of thousands of years back to the raging animals at our core. The graduate was young and strong. The irate driver, much older, thin, with unkempt hair, was wearing a long aloha shirt that hung loosely over his pants. My stomach tightened as they came chest to chest, face to face, the graduate standing slightly askew, ready to deliver a blow, and I wondered what I would do if a fight broke out. Would I go to the assistance of the graduate? Would I call for help? But suddenly the confrontation was over. Final words were exchanged. The graduate began walking back to his van, stopped, looked back, made another comment, but continued on to his van. The irate driver looked around, perhaps satisfied in some strange way that he was justified in threatening the graduate, that he had won. But the event was over. Except that, before the driver got back into his car, he looked back at me. He was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I sensed that he might still be ready to fight. Want to make something of it? I imagined he was thinking. His movements were forced and jerky, the exaggerated motions of a strutting rooster ready to defend his territory. As he got into his car he hiked up his shirt, possibly for my benefit, and for a fleeting moment I saw that he was wearing a tan leather holster around his waist in which was strapped a black revolver. This man, who had threatened the graduate, was carrying a gun. He didn’t look at all like an off-duty police officer. He didn’t look at all like someone who should be carrying a concealed lethal weapon. It all happened very quickly. The irate driver getting into his car, the gun, the sports car heading off north on 680. As I drove toward Benicia, I realized that I should have got his license number and checked to see if he was authorized to carry a concealed weapon, but I didn’t. My mind didn’t work fast enough. Like the pickpocket incident, I was unprepared. It was over before I realized what had happened and what I needed to do. No one was dead, but I wondered what would have happened if the confrontation between the graduate and the irate driver had escalated. What are we to make of these two stories? Should we conclude that Italy is the land of the pickpocket, that America is the land of the gun? Should extraordinary stories become stereotypical because they are entertaining, becoming ordinary through repetition? While America may be the land where school killings risk becoming routine, where trivial traffic confrontations can become lethal, it’s more frequently a place where neighbors help neighbors; where fairness, equality, and opportunity form the fabric of our society, however imperfectly realized in practice; where we go to court at the slightest hint that constitutionally guaranteed rights have been denied. And while Italy may be the land of the Mafia and the petty thief, it’s more frequently a beautiful, friendly place where a taxi driver returned 10,000 lira (~$5) to my son who had overpaid by mistake, giving him 21,000 rather than 12,000 lira. The driver returned the 10,000 bill to Joe, saying that it was okay, that he didn’t need more than the 11,000 he received, refusing both additional money and a tip. It’s a place where my son’s friend was mugged as she withdrew money from an ATM. She was knocked down and hurt and many gathered around to help her. One Italian handed her 20,000 lira, saying it was the least he could do. She went to the hospital where her leg was bandaged; where there were no complicated forms to fill out; where no insurance was needed; where she was treated free of charge. We need to be careful that we are not deceived by our entertaining stereotype sea. It’s a treacherous sea, filled with celebrated narrative sharks. We swim in the sea, sail on its stories, but we must remember that the sea cares more for convenience than conveyance. It’s a perilous sea that can threaten even the most stalwart rational sailor with its extraordinary tales of thieving Italians, rude French, larcenous Gypsies, dangerous brown, black and white adolescents, greedy businessmen, pushy Jews, ubiquitous Japanese tourists, hypocritical Christians, self-serving Republicans, big-spending Democrats, lazy welfare mothers, dead-beat dads, and violent Americans fat from too much TV. It’s filled, the stereotype sea is, with our most sordid and prejudiced thoughts, though each story when added, we believe wholeheartedly, was built crystal clear from indelible, incontrovertible truth. |
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- Dave Badtke can be contacted at: www.CarquinezReview.com; Dave@Badtke.com; PO Box 763, Benicia, CA 94510; or by calling 707-745-5540.
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