Until recently, I worked out of an office in downtown Albany on Broadway. When I was young and still had an eye on becoming an entertainer, I was hoping for a different Broadway, but it was still satisfying to have any kind of Broadway address on my letterhead.
I occupied part of the fifth floor of a renovated brownstone. The floor was divided into two suites of offices. Unfortunately for the landlord, the other suite went unrented for many of the years I was a tenant. I am not sure why this was so. The offices were lovely. I am sure it had nothing to do with me. Maybe it was due to the crime. People were simply afraid to rent downtown. Who knows for sure?
Anyway, before you learn about my dark side, I wish to relate two criminal incidents in which I was involved, one as a crime fighter, the second as an innocent bystander. The first was of a fairly routine variety, but the second was very disturbing. It still makes me shudder to think about it.
Incident No. 1 –
I was alone in my office at about 5:30 in the afternoon. I was just about ready to leave for the day when I heard someone jiggle the handle of the outer door of the suite. I broke away from my desk and didn’t see anyone through the glass door, so I opened it. A lone man was standing about ten feet down the hall with his hand on the doorknob of the door leading to the stairwell. I asked if I could provide him with some assistance. There used to be a temporary employment agency on my floor and every now and then, someone would come up thinking it was still there. He mumbled something and then raced down the stairs. Without hesitation, I decided to give chase.
I had no plan as I initiated pursuit. I was propelled by adrenalin alone. As I chased the would-be burglar, I shouted at him to stop. That helped a lot! After running down five flights of stairs, he bolted out the front door and onto Broadway. He headed south before turning west up Pine Street. I was in hot pursuit. Hot and sweaty, actually. It was pretty warm that day and I don’t run that well.
As I turned up Pine, an American-model sedan stopped alongside me. “I am an undercover Federal agent (the Federal Court House is across the street on Broadway). What seems to be the problem?” As I caught my breath, I responded: “I am chasing some guy who tried to break into my office.” The undercover agent pulled out one of those mobile flashing lights and affixed it to the roof of his car. The perp turned south onto James Street as the agent sped off, light flashing and siren blaring. The perp, acknowledging his inability to escape the speeding police vehicle, gave up. As it turned out, there was a warrant out for this guy’s arrest. The Federal agent radioed the local Albany police, who carted the perp away in handcuffs.
Days later, I ran into Charlie, the downtown bicycle cop, with whom I am quite friendly. By the same token, his wife can’t stand me because of my book. I only know this because she owns a sandwich shop downtown and when I walk by, she sneers at me. I said: “Charlie, I’m a crime-fighter, just like you.” I then related everything that had happened. Charlie replied: “Sid, are you fucking crazy? What if that guy had a gun?” I shrugged my shoulders and told him that a man has to do what a man has to do, and at the time, I had to chase a criminal. Charlie just rolled his eyes. “Oh, Sid!” He added: “By the way, don’t let me catch you drinking anymore beer at the amphitheater by the river.” Then, I rolled my eyes.
Incident No. 2 –
Fortunately, the burglar I chased did not have a gun. If he did, at least he didn’t shoot me. Still, the incident inspired me to fight crime whenever and wherever I see it. As exhilarating as crime fighting is, I suppose it’s a good thing that I don’t have too many opportunities to play superhero. After all, I am a lover, not a fighter. Nevertheless, sometimes shit happens. I just didn’t expect it to happen at Bomber’s, one of the bars I frequent to sing karaoke. If you have been paying attention, then you already know all about Bomber’s. It’s the one across from Planned Parenthood.
Although it was karaoke night at Bomber’s, it was an unusual evening for me because I was with my son, who was home from school. My son is a jazz singer, so I was looking forward to hearing him sing. In other words, I was happy and excited. My boy was with me! And he can sing!
My son and I decided to get a bite to eat before singing. We sat at the bar and ordered a couple of burritos. It’s not for nothing that the place is called Bomber’s Burrito Bar. We ordered one more item to accompany our selected burritos-sweet potato French fries. We are both big fans of sweet potatoes, especially when they come fried and crispy.
In order for you to appreciate what happened next, it’s important for you to understand the layout of Bomber’s. Bomber’s was fashioned from two adjoining brownstones on Lark Street in Albany. There is a restaurant below street level and a bar/restaurant upstairs. Although they are connected, the downstairs and upstairs function as two separate entities, unless of course, you order food upstairs, as did my son and I. The upstairs is divided into two halves, connected by two openings, neither of which is really much wider than a door. On one side of the divide is the bar area. It’s the narrower side of the two and fairly unremarkable. A television set is usually on playing movies appropriate for the twenty-something crowd. Since bars play music, the television sound is turned off, making it very hard to understand the dialogue, since I do not read lips. The opposite side of the upstairs has a wall of booths and other tables of various dimensions scattered about the room. Most are rectangular high-tops. There is also a small elevated area along the big front window just wide and long enough for a couple of tables, a table for the d.j.’s equipment, and standing room for a few singers.
My son and I were sitting at the largely vacant bar when our food arrived. We were pleased with our selected burritos, but especially, with the sweet potato french fries. They were delicious.
If you have never been to Bomber’s for a burrito, then let me warn you. They are quite big. After a few minutes of eating, my son and I were curious about what was going on in the other side of the bar where they were singing karaoke. So, we got up from our half-eaten meal and wandered over to peek at the karaoke singing. Things were in full swing, so we wanted to finish our food and then go sing.
As we turned and walked back toward the bar and our food, I was stunned by a very disturbing sight. A tall, lanky blond-haired guy was eating our sweet potato french fries! I couldn’t believe it. Bomber’s is not a fine dining establishment, but neither is it a soup kitchen. You can’t just steal someone’s sweet potato french fries, at least not in plain sight! Indignant, I raced over to confront the sweet potato french fry thief. I looked up into his nearly blank gaze. As I rolled my eyes, I slapped his hand as he reached for another fry. “Hey, buddy! You can’t steal my sweet potato french fries!” The thief was caught off-guard by my attack. Apparently, no one had ever slapped his hand before at Bomber’s. Well, I thought it was about time. As he mumbled some meager defense of his actions, I just snarled. He sauntered away as tall, lanky people often do, and disappeared.
My son and I finished our meal and enjoyed a night of singing karaoke.
Little did I know at the time, but the sweet potato french fry thief was about to become a fixture in my karaoke life. I started to see him every week. Apparently, he glommed onto Bomber’s version of the almost-thirty year old, self-proclaimed glitterati who frequented karaoke bars and other establishments where they can glow brightly for the young girls. He was clearly subordinate to some of the others, which probably explains his willingness to steal someone else’s sweet potato french fries. After all, it certainly looked like he was riding the coattails of his associates’ innate coolness and popularity. Disgusting! Get your own life, you thief!
I can’t tell you exactly why I was so disturbed by the sweet potato french fry thief. I don’t understand it myself. Still, whenever I saw him, I would walk up and ask: “Hey, aren’t you the guy who stole my sweet potato french fries?” As much as confronting said thief amused me, Alex (I learned his name after a while) was not amused at all. By the same token, neither did he apologize. He would just smirk.
At some point, when I realized that I would have to live with Alex on a weekly basis because he kept coming to karaoke, I decided enough was enough and extended my hand in friendship. Well, I tried anyway. Really! Although he begrudgingly accepted my hand, no matter how hard I tried to overcome my disgust with his sweet potato french fry robbing ways, I just couldn’t. How could this thief share my addiction to karaoke? Are we more alike than I wanted to admit? Am I a potential sweet potato french fry thief? Perish the thought! Still, for the sake of karaoke and my enjoyment, I knew I would have to get along with Alex. I discussed the situation at length with Greg, the d.j. He felt that Alex was an insecure person trying to overcome his insecurities. Greg further admitted to mentoring Alex as a karaoke singer. He saw that Alex was walking in the shadows of his friends and decided to help him by turning him into a good singer. Although I always liked Greg, I wasn’t aware of this softer side. It was sweet and I admired Greg for trying. Or, it was a gay thing. Still, isn’t Alex the guy who stole my sweet potato french fries? On the other hand, even I have to admit that Alex has become pretty good as a karaoke singer. I even humored him on Halloween night when I was the substitute d.j. at Bomber’s. I did learn something that night. Alex literally talks out of the side of his mouth. He came up to the d.j. table and asked me what he should sing. He leaned over and somehow moved his mouth to the side of his face while he spoke to me. Boy does this guy have problems. I helped him anyway and we decided on a Beatles’ song. Or maybe it was “Tainted Love.” 
Here he is by the way.
I wasn’t going to write anything more about Alex, but I stopped at a Lark Street restaurant recently for some dinner and a few caipirinhas. Justin’s, where I have been going for over 30 years now, actually had Brazilian cachaca! Wow! Unfortunately, I finished their last bottle. I hope they get some more. Anyway, as I was finishing my dinner at the bar and sipping my caipirinha, Alex walked in and joined his friend, Ted, who is actually a very good singer and who comes to karaoke on occasion. Alex was seated a few stools down and seemed very animated. It was hard to hear everything he was saying over the music, but he sounded distressed. I gleaned from what I could hear that someone opened a package he had received in the mail and stole its contents. It turned out to be a $200.00 Boston Celtics jersey. Ray Allen. I didn’t know that Alex was a Boston fan, but he does have that Irish look about him -pasty white and all. I made some comment about how awful it was that someone would steal from him and then shrugged my shoulders. What goes around comes around!
It’s one thing to fight crime, still another to assist in the rehabilitation of a criminal, as I did with Alex. After a while though, one begins to absorb the workings of the criminal mind. As exposure to the criminal mind becomes more frequent, it starts to become attractive. And, dear readers, I am about to tell you the sad tale of Sid Stein – Criminal.
A lot of people joke on dating sites about finding their “partner in crime.” Little did I know when I first met Abril that I actually had. She lived downstate so we decided to meet at a restaurant in picturesque Woodstock, New York for our first date. Abril was beautiful and charming. In a scene right out of a movie, we got caught in a sudden and powerful thunderstorm, forcing us to take cover on someone’s porch. I may have even made some corny remark like: “Is that the thunder or just the beating of my heart?” Okay, I admit it. I made the comment. She liked it. We kissed as the lightning struck and the thunder resounded mightily off the Catskill Mountains. Kudos to the “Big Guy” upstairs! Anyway, we hit it off quite well and decided to see each other again.
Let me just say a few words about Abril before I continue. She is pretty, smart and sexy. In fact, she is a whole lotta woman. Complicating matters for me was the fact that she is Latina. I will let you in on a secret. Latin women are my particular weakness. For Sid Stein, Latin women are what kryptonite is for Superman-my Achilles’ heel. Most of the time, it’s not a problem. In Abril’s particular case, I was more than a little nervous about getting involved with her. Why? In addition to being pretty, smart and sexy, she was also very sweet. That’s a problem? No! Of course not. However, she did tell me she had seven older brothers. I don’t want to reveal her last name, as I have decided to protect the identities of the people I write about, but I will tell you this, her last name is the same as a very famous Latino boxer. I am talking multiple titles. And she had seven of them in her family. Oh boy! Now, back to the story.
Abril and I met again in Cold Spring, New York, a lovely hamlet situated on the Hudson River. From what I have gleaned from online dating, it is a very popular meeting place. For any of you who have been there, then you know why that is. It has natural beauty, a nice Main Street (if it’s called Main Street), some shops and a few nice restaurants. Our date went equally as well as the first and we definitely wanted to see each other again.
And see each other again, we did. This time, I drove down to Westchester County where Abril lived. I arrived late afternoon or early evening. It was still light out anyway. Even though I was pretty hot for Abril at this point, I am Jewish, so eating comes first. Although Abril is not Jewish, she knew that Jews love Chinese food, so she suggested a Chinese restaurant. Some of you may be wondering why Jews love Chinese food so much. The primary reason is the fact that on Christmas, it’s where Jews gather and eat because they are the only restaurants open. Over the years, it has become a tradition. Christmas for many Jews equals dinner at a Chinese restaurant. If you don’t believe me, go to one on Christmas. We are all there. It’s also the only place we can eat pork without guilt. We call it the “Chinese exception to the no-pork rule.” For those of you completely in the dark, the Old Testament forbids us from eating pork. No ham, no bacon. No pork products at all. Without doubt, and as with all prohibitions, this particular ban makes Jews wonder about pork and how it tastes. Why can’t we enjoy the aroma of bacon sizzling in the skillet in the morning? Maybe if we could eat pork, gentiles would treat us better. Still, who wants to incur the wrath of the Almighty? It’s not even “THE” white meat. It’s just the “other white meat.” Chinese food to the rescue! First, they have Chinese names for everything. If you order some dish by its Chinese name, who knows exactly what is in it? And, are you ever sure what they are serving? It’s always cut up into little pieces. It could be anything. And what are spare ribs? Cows have ribs. Maybe it’s not pork. Who runs a spectrometric analysis of a won ton? In other words, if it’s not called pork or ham or bacon, it’s not.
After dinner, Abril suggested that we go for a walk. She suggested we go to the park at Kensico Dam Plaza. (you can click on pictures for a better view)
I had never heard of it before, but she was driving so I hopped into her Volkswagen and off we went (no Jew in a Volkswagen jokes, please). It was already dark when we arrived and turned into the driveway. A police car was parked at the entrance. We drove by and parked in the lot. We strolled under the nearly full moon and enjoyed the night air. You may be thinking that I made up the part about the nearly full moon. I didn’t. It was the day before the full moon so it looked pretty damn full. Very romantic. In case you don’t believe me, look it up yourself - http://www.moon-phases.net/calendar/index.php The site shows you the phases of the moon for each month. It’s actually a very cool site. We were at the park for about 45 minutes and decided to sit down near the dam and chat. Most likely, I gave her a few kisses by this point. Why not? The night was lovely, Abril was lovely, and we were enjoying ourselves.
Sounds like a pretty nice evening, if I say so myself. Everything was working. Even the moon was full (okay, nearly full. Now you know where to look it up). I don’t normally like to use words like idyllic, but why not? These are the kinds of nights when people fall in love. Abril was definitely falling for me. And, if truth be told, I for her. You could guess what happened next, but you’d be wrong.
Suddenly, as we bathed in the moonlight, I heard a voice. No, it wasn’t the Almighty, despite the fact that He already played a part in this story (thunder and lightning in the Catskills and the full moon, nearly). Still, it was an authoritarian sounding voice. A woman’s voice too. That’s how I knew it wasn’t the big man upstairs. “Hey, you two, do you know you are loitering? The park is closed after sunset.” Cops! Two of them. Both women. Sort of like a bizarre version of Miami Vice, but they weren’t dressed as nicely. They were in uniform. “Let’s see some identification,” one of them barked.
Abril is a political activist. She questions authority. She is also a passionate Latina. I feared what was coming. I looked at her with a “please don’t start with the cops” look in my eyes. “I don’t have any identification,” she snapped back. I knew she did. It was in her car just a minute away. Meanwhile, I was reaching for my wallet. Needless to say, the lady cops were not at all pleased with Abril’s response. To be honest, I don’t remember the precise exchange between the cops and Abril, but it was less than pleasant. Of course, Abril was outraged that she was being hassled just for strolling in a public park, after sunset or not. She was an American! With rights! As much as I agreed with her, I knew the cops wouldn't. The cops marched us back to the Volkswagen and Abril retrieved her driver’s license from her bag. They asked us to wait and then climbed into their car.
As we waited, we wondered what the problem was. The police car was parked right at the entrance of the park when we drove inside. No honk, no siren, no flashing lights warning us to leave. In fact, they let us wander around for 45 minutes before they did anything. We had legitimate questions and asked them all when Starsky and Hutch finally emerged from their vehicle after 20 minutes. A long 20 minutes, I might add. Of course, none of that mattered to them. They handed each of us an appearance ticket for loitering. Then I got pissed. I said, “Look, I am a 49 year old lawyer with a woman who is also a professional. Why didn’t you just tell us to get lost? We weren’t engaged in any illegal activity. We hardly look like trouble-makers.” I got a response to that query. “Well, that’s what we would have done if your friend hadn’t given us a hard time.” I said, “I didn’t give you a hard time. I handed my driver’s license to you right away. So why are you giving me a ticket?” I wasn’t exactly betraying Abril, mind you, just pointing out the weakness in their decision to ticket us. The cop just shrugged her shoulders and gave me a “that’s what happens when you white boys mix with minorities” look. Asshole!
Abril and I left the scene of the crime, outraged that we had been issued tickets for loitering. Abril thought she knew someone who might be able to help and commented that she would call him the following day. At some point, we just laughed about it. After all, it was just a ticket for a violation, hardly a major crime. It’s in the same category as a parking ticket. So, on September 25th at 9:50 p.m. under a full moon, I was ordered to appear in town court in Mt. Pleasant, New York on November 29th at 9:30 a.m. Here’s a picture of the ticket. 
At some point, the two of us decided to laugh it off. After all, why not? It certainly qualified as one of those times you laugh about in the future. Hey, remember the time we were ticketed for loitering? Of course, in order to qualify as one of those incidents that gets laughed about in the future, it is presumed that they don't repeat themselves. No, I didn't get ticketed again for loitering, but I did have another incident with the police while out on a date with Abril. She had come to Albany for the weekend and we decided to go salsa dancing on North Pearl Street.
I need to say a few words about North Pearl Street before I continue. Years ago, Albany had a less than a lively nightlife. There were always clubs to go to, good clubs too, but we didn't really have a Bourbon Street of our own. Our mayor, Gerald D. Jennings, an Irish party boy, decided to change all that when he was elected. On the heels of a North Pearl Street rehabilitation project, the Mayor decided to turn North Pearl Street into an "entertainment district." Translated, that means that we now have more bars in more places. I even made a t-shirt to that effect.
In other words, instead of addressing serious issues confronting the city, we now have a street which is flooded by young people on the weekend who do nothing but drink a lot and get into fights. Instead of the police fighting real crime and protecting our citizens, they try to maintain order downtown. Even though I have been critical of the Mayor (I write letters to our local newspaper condemning his policies), I do go downtown on occasion to have a good time. Call me a hypocrite. By the way, the Mayor hates my guts. Anyway, Abril and I enjoyed our salsa dancing and decided to check out the rest of what North Pearl Street had to offer. More bars, of course. As we headed north in the direction of the Bayou Cafe, cops began arriving in droves. Cop cars everywhere! I had never seen anything like it in the streets of Albany. 
Did terrorists attack? Not exactly. As it turned out, one young man had gotten into a scuffle, maybe took a swing at a cop, and was now in cuffs, sitting by a squad car in the middle of the street. I found it odd that most of the cops arrived after the kid was already in custody. As soon as I was able to meander down to center of the action, I discovered the reason why so many cops felt it necessary to aid their brethren in blue. The cause of the sensation was a black kid! Oh no! How the hell did a black kid enter the Mayor's all-white entertainment zone? "Red Alert! Calling all cars! We need a show of force to make sure that the drunk young people from the suburbs don't get scared away by the presence of black men on North Pearl Street. Save the Mayor's vision for Albany! Defend the centerpiece of the Mayor's plan for economic revival." I sensed an opportunity. After all, this was just another example of the the Mayor's failed policies. And, I had a camera on my cell phone! Photo op! I positioned myself at a strategic location on the sidewalk and took the following picture. 
It's a bit fuzzy, but if you look carefully, you can see the "perp" sitting on the ground in front of the police SUV. Well, friends, the cops were not happy with my ad hoc reporting. I was approached by two officers who ordered me to move away from the scene. Of course, I protested. "I'm not doing anything, I am just standing on the sidewalk." "Move along, sir. Right now!" "But it's a public sidewalk!" "If you don't move along, we are going to have to arrest you." "Arrest me? For what? Standing on the sidewalk?" "If you have a problem, sir , you can call Chief Tuffey (apparently, I was addressed as sir due to my advanced age)." "Fine, I will do just that. Let me get your badge numbers." "Listen," one continued, "just go into a bar and have another drink. Move along or we will arrest you." At this point, I took them seriously. Cops were ordering me into a bar to drink more. Only in Albany! I followed their advice and had another drink.
Time passed and Abril and the “Incident at Kensico Dam Plaza” faded into memory. Before I knew it, November 30th was around the corner. November 30th? Maybe you are thinking I was supposed to be in court on November 29th. I was. I forgot. I called the court on the 30th to explain my absence. “How can you forget about court,” the clerk demanded. I apologized profusely, explained that I was an attorney and asked for a new date. “Well, the judge has already issued a bench warrant for your arrest based on your failure to appear in court.” “What? Are you kidding me?” “No, sir. Just come to court next Thursday and you can resolve it.” “That’s great, but now there’s a warrant out for my arrest. Can’t it be canceled? After all, I called as soon as I realized my mistake.” “No, it can’t be canceled.” So what am I supposed to do?” “Just try to stay out of trouble for the coming week. I am sure it will be fine.” Here’s a copy of the letter I received from court advising me of the warrant.
Well, friends, that’s just what I did. I tried to stay out of trouble. And, I was successful. Still, that’s not the end of the story.
Before I ever met Abril, I dated a woman who also lived in Westchester County. Although she is a great person and very nice, I didn’t think we made a perfect match. Nevertheless, we remained friends and kept in touch. She, of course, thought the whole story was hilarious as in “I deserved it” hilarious. She even made an offer. Drive to her house and she would take me to the courthouse, which she claimed was a little hard to find if you were unfamiliar with the area. I accepted.
So, the following week, I woke up early, got dressed up and drove down. I arrived at the courthouse in time, but court wasn’t ready to start at 9:30 a.m. No explanation, of course. Eventually, my friend and I found seats on a bench and waited as cases were called up. As is true in many town courts, the defendants who were represented by attorneys were called up first. I never found this to be very democratic, but judges give lawyers preferential treatment. Who knew? I did because I am a lawyer and benefited from this policy on many an occasion. I was paying for it now as time dragged on and on. It was taking forever.
My friend indicated that she needed to run an errand but would come back as soon as she was done. Off she went. Of course, soon after she drove away, my case was called. There were still quite a few attorneys sitting in the front rows as I made my way to the table in front of the judge’s bench. He looked quite stern as he began to read the charge and tell me my rights. He advised that I had the right to an attorney and if I could not afford an attorney, one would be appointed for me. I interjected that I was an attorney and apologized for missing court. I could feel the disdain piercing me from the judge and my fellow members of the bar. One of their kind was a criminal! A loiterer, to boot. And he missed court! No respect! Before I had a chance to explain the circumstances surrounding the issuance of the ticket, the judge offered me a deal. He said I could accept an A.C.O.D. or go to trial. In layman’s terms, an adjournment in contemplation of dismissal means that if I stayed out of trouble for six months, the case would be dismissed. I accepted the deal. I really didn’t think it was fair, but I was not in the mood to pay a fine and I certainly did not want to waste my time by going down to court again for a trial. By the way, I will be free to loiter again in about a month.
My friend returned a little while later and was profoundly upset that she missed my appearance in front of the judge. Apparently, she was really looking forward to witness my comeuppance. Better luck next time.
I am sure that there is a lesson to be learned here. I am not sure what it could be. I will say this. Now that I have tasted the criminal life, I want more. I am considering moving from loitering to littering – just not in the town of Mt. Pleasant, New York.
One last note. I started this story by telling you that my stories have been a bit two-sided – karaoke and women. I thought I might change tack by writing about crime. But as I reached the end of the story, guess what? It’s still karaoke and women. Go ahead, roll your eyes. Just about everyone else has in this story.
