July 4, 1976

On the Bicentennial, when I was four years old, I got lost. Right in the middle of the festivities, in the heart of downtown Philadelphia.

My father was working that day—playing in a band hired to perform outside Winston’s Restaurant in Old City, Philadelphia. The name of the band was “The Shuttlebums,” and since my dad was also a carpenter, he came up with the idea of making business cards for the band on tiny slats of wood. Someday, when the bombs drop and cockroaches start throwing their own Bicentennial celebrations, those business cards will be around.

Since my father had a gig, and my mother was The Shuttlebums’ de facto manager, I was brought along too, as well as my year-old baby brother. I don’t remember much of the gig, except that it was in front of Winston’s Restaurant, at Front and Chestnut Street, three blocks from where the Declaration of Independence was signed. I also remember what was going through my young brain: big Boat. Very Cool Big Boat.

You see, my father’s full-time carpentry gig was on this restaurant ship called “The Moshulu,” which, in 1976 (and again, about 20 years later), was docked at Penn’s Landing, three blocks east of Winston’s. I somehow put the geography together, and I knew if I walked over the Very Big Bridge (in actuality, a pedestrian footbridge over I-95), I could see the Very Cool Big Boat. So in the middle of the largest crowd ever gathered in Old City Philadelphia, I ran away.

But not alone. I took an accomplice along with me: my Aunt Diane. Relieved? Don’t be. She was only nine months older than me at the time. (My grandmother became pregnant with her late in life—the last in a series of five girls, spanning 22 years or so. God bless my grandpop Lou.) Why Diane followed me, I’ll never know. I’ve never been the persuasive type. And you’d figure a five-year-old would know better. But, oh well.

I don’t remember the walk over there. It was probably scary as hell, and I’ve blocked it from my memory. But I do remember walking into the restaurant portion of the boat, and Diane and I sliding into two seats at a table. A frazzled waitress with a nameplate emblazoned VICKY came over and dropped two menus and a large wicker bowl of popcorn on the table. She must have assumed we were brother and sister, and our parents were nearby. Of course, this was not the case. We were alone, and lost.

--from Secret Dead Men (2005)

Update: The above excerpt is completely true. Except for the part about the waitress being named Vicky. (I don't have that kind of memory.) Many fiction writers, if not all, mine their real life for stories.

Anyway, you can read the complete story this Thursday. I wrote about the incident in my City Paper editor's letter.

This afternoon, I took a walk over to Penn's Landing and retraced my steps from 30 years ago. Funny thing is, you can still see where Winston's used to be. The facade hasn't changed much, even though the restaurant is long gone. The city completely rebuilt the pedestrian bridge and reshaped much of the waterfront area. A naval vessel, the USS Farragut, is temporarily docked where the Moshulu once docked. I turned around, and saw a completely different skyline from what had been there in 1976. There was also an Irish memorial across the street from the former Winston's location, resting on a concrete slab that hangs above I-95. (I have no memory of what used to be there.) Vendors sold giant bottles of water for a buck. "Any drink, one dollar."

The air was thick and humid. A thunderstorm was coming.

I walked back to my office with a funny feeling that was not quite nostalgia, and not quite melancholy.

That was my July 4, 2006.