It was the winter of ’81, a cold clear night in the city. Ellenwood and I were headed back from a jam session out at Carlton’s place out in the Sunset. We were cutting through Golden Gate Park on our way back to his place when the left rear tire went flat. Grabbing a flashlight I assessed the situation only to find the car jack inoperable, meaning we couldn’t change the tire and were going to need road service. In these pre-cellphone days that meant having to go find a pay phone, so Ellenwood stayed with the car while I struck out for the Shell station at Lincoln and 19th.

As it happened the Shell station was the local AAA service so when I got there I explained the situation to the attendant. He informed me that the tow truck was out on a call and I would have to wait until it got back. So I hung around the station for what seemed liked an hour but likely only 15 minutes or so. Finally the tow truck roared into the driveway and screeched to a halt by the near pumps, towing what remained of an early 1950’s era pickup. As the driver exited the tow truck he looked like he was about to puke. The top of the cab was missing and shards of glass littering the bed and as I approached I spotted a chunk of brain matter laying in the bed of the truck amid the blood and shattered glass.

As I was taking this in a voice came booming through the night air, “YOU AT THE PUMPS FREEZE!” Looking up, I saw an SFPD squad car parked on the opposite side of the station. A half dozen cops crouched behind it with their guns pointed straight at me. As I raised my hands slowly above my head I felt the tug of the flashlight protruding from my coat pocket. I quickly shouted “IT’S ONLY A FLASHLIGHT!”, hoping to avoid a flash of silver metal triggering a deadly volley. As I said this the wail of an ambulance siren drew ever closer, finally coming to a halt near the squad car. Apparently the cops had been so sure of bloodshed that they called for one in advance.

After my surrender the situation diffused as the cops began to investigate. I was told an off duty cop in the bar across the street had seen me hanging around the station and had concluded that I was robbing the place and had called it in. The attendant was questioned and confirmed my story about waiting for the tow truck. Just as the situation seemed to be resolved the officer in charge informed me that they had run my license and come up with a warrant for me in Oakland. I had never been stopped or arrested in Oakland and I told him so. Apparently reluctant to send the man they had almost accidentally shot off to Oakland city jail, perhaps mistakenly, he handed my license back to me with a “Get this taken care of”. With that the scene began to clear out and I headed back to the car to wait for the tow truck. Soon the tire was fixed and we headed back to Ellenwood’s.

Have thought many times over the years about that night, how a wrong alcohol fueled assumption almost led to me making the papers. Now, in these times, I am given to wonder…am I still alive because I am white? Did the color of my skin hold the trigger fingers just long enough? Did an unspoken priveledge change my fate? If I were black would someone else be telling my story? The questions hang in the air like a moment frozen in time.