Up the front steps, I rang the door bell and kept ringing it for about five minutes. No one answered. When I took a couple of steps back and looked up at the front of the house, I thought I saw one of the drapes moving. Could she be hiding? I sat on the stoop unsuspecting and waited for the career lady to return from her career.

After about forty minutes of sitting and rereading yesterday’s Post, a van slowly pulled up. Suddenly I heard Glenn’s door behind me swing open. Junior leaped out with a baseball bat and screamed, “That’s him!”

The side door of the van slid open and out plopped a harmless-looking fat kid who fell on his face, but stumbling behind him was a little league team. I dropped everything and ran down the street toward the river. I had at least a half a block lead, which they closed by the time I reached the promenade. Jumping over the encircling gate, I moved through the shrubs and trees and tried squeezing through a fence into a private backyard, but I was too hefty. Through the foliage I could see nothing but running feet. They seemed to be all around me so I squatted low in the thicket and waited. I could hear them yelling between each other, “Is he up there?”

“No—did he jump over there?”

“He couldn’t, either the fall or the cars would’ve killed him.”

“Well he was around here a second ago.”

“He couldn’t’ve escaped. Spread out.”

They were defoliating the bushes and shrubs, and I knew that in a minute they would be on me, so I chose a direction and waited for my big chance. A hard boot suddenly kicked me square in the center of my back, throwing me flat on my face.

“Found him!” one large guy was screaming. “He’s right here.”

“Grab him, grab him!” I could feel the thuds of approaching feet running toward me. I tried to rise but a shower of needles seemed to radiate from my spine. Then the hailstorm started. Feet and fists smashed up and down along my arms and legs. I curled into a ball and tried to get up.

“Hold his arms! Kick out his teeth!” I heard someone ranting orders, and a paddle wheel of shoes started on my head and neck.

“Stop it!” I suddenly made out Junior’s voice. “Just hold him flat!” Anda group of hands and arms weaved into a straight jacket holding me flat on my back. “Mama’s gonna need a new lover.”

Through the throbbing headache, puffy eyes, and loud ringing, I watched him pull that Afghan knife out of his pants. When I saw him snap open the shiny blade, it was like snapping open a capsule of smelling salts and inhaling. Convulsing up with all my might, he quickly gored his knife into my right inner thigh. When I started bleeding, they weakened their grip and I pulled to my feet and dashed through the bramble. As I hurtled back over the gated area, they pursued. A cop car was slowly patrolling the far end of the promenade and nothing was obstructing its view. One of the officers must’ve seen me dashing by with Spanky’s gang close behind, but apparently it didn’t warrant further investigation.

Running off the promenade at the exit with the flag pole, I made it about a quarter of the block up Montague Street before the fastest kid in the group grabbed me. A baby-faced monster with good sneakers, kicked me in the back of my knees. I went down. It was just the two of us. I lunged forward, putting him in a quick half-nelson, and fumbled through his pocket. Just as Junior and the tallest lad bolted forth, I found a Bic ballpoint pen which I placed right in the corner of his right eye.

“A step closer and skinny’s a cyclops, I swear it.” Junior caught the rest of the kids as they came huffing and tumbling out of the park. They encircled me and then Junior made a proposal.

“Let him go, and we’ll let you go.”

“There’s no way you can guarantee that,” I said.

“What do you want?”

“Just stay put,” I replied as I backed up the block holding the hostage boy in one hand and the pen in the other. A retroactive pain was regrouping throughout parts of my body, a limp had caught up with me and bent me over. Neither cab nor cop came by.

As the pain settled, it became harder to hold balance, and when I finally tripped on the consistently broken pavement, dropping the pen, my leash was gone. Skinny broke lose and the dog pack was set free. In an excruciating limp, 1 dashed into the nearest open store, a Häagen Dazs ice cream parlor.

I pushed two people aside and jumped over the counter. When the kids dashed in one by one, each at his own pace, someone yelled, ‘There’s a line!”

Running around the counter, they reached down and restarted with the kicks and wallops. I felt a tooth break in my mouth and fists pounding on my skull and chest. Suddenly, like a piece of furniture, I was lifted into the air for removal and disposal.

“Let him go!” A middle-aged lady wearing a red Häagen Dazs T-shirt cocked a small revolver at the group.

“He beat up our friend,” one replied, the one who had first caught me in the bushes. “We’re taking him to the police.”

“No!” I whined pitifully, as I wiggled myself to my feet. Hands started gripping me tightly. “I was disciplining him for his mother.”

In an unharmonious chorus they all started disagreeing with me, each supplying his own renditions.

“Shut up!” she yelled, pointing her gun. “I’ll call the police here and solve the matter for everyone.”

“Hell no,” Junior replied. “We’re not letting him go.”

“Get the hell out of my store!” The lady spoke with a full maternal authority. Abruptly it felt like an anvil dropped on my head. I was dropped flat on my back and resisted passing out. The lady walked over and stood between me and the pack. Pointing the revolver at Junior, sternly she said, “Get the hell out of my store this instant.”

“Fine,” Junior said with a smile, and then addressing me he added, “We’ll wait for you outside, coach.”

Out they filed, one by one, waiting for me just beyond the door. She quickly had one of the employees lock the door and instructed the other one to call the police and an ambulance. She then helped me to a comfortable position and with a wet napkin she started wiping off blood. Judging from the sorrowful expression on her face, I must’ve been a mess.

“Thanks,” I blurted.

“It ain’t even loaded,” she whispered while dabbing my face with a wet napkin. I tried to rise, but pain had replaced all senses.

“Just lie still.” She looked at me intently. “Can you see me?”

“Yeah, why.”

“There’s blood in your eyes.” There was blood oozing from everywhere, and soon, to the tune of sirens, I drifted. Through a heavenly fog I heard the queries: Why did they attack you? Who were they? Who’s your nearest living relative? It was a reenactment of the Blimpie’s aftermath weeks earlier only this time I had advanced from secondary character to lead victim. After a long wait, lying numbly in a gurney in the emergency ward of Long Island College Hospital, I was stripped, cleaned, bandaged, X-rayed, given a skull series, spine tapped, and ready to roll again. A calm doctor itemized my bill; I had a slight concussion, several broken ribs, a broken nose, a deep knife wound in my right thigh, and a large side order of bruises and abrasions. Then I was injected with some antibiotics and a local anesthetic. The bones were realigned and the thigh stitched up. When they found out I was financially unprotected, I was ready to roll yet again, this time to the overcrowded charity ward where I spent the night. I no longer got as many miles to the gallon but I still had some tread left.

A charity ward is not a quiet place, and the next morning when I awoke, a cliché was sitting in the visitor’s chair at my right. I knew he was a cliché because he looked like every detective I had ever seen on TV from “Dragnet” through “Hawaii Five-0” to “Barney Miller.” He wore the bland suit and had the badge hanging out of his outer jacket pocket. A wheeled curtain was pulled tightly around my bed; privacy.