I am 66 now; retired from the D.C. Fire Department about 6 years ago. It wasn’t always like this. People didn’t always get along; but it wasn’t like this.

Give you an example: the 1972 cops and robbers’ party. In 1972, I was 17 years old. Typical high school kid in D.C. Finding work for a kid was easier than today and I was always looking for a way to make money. One job I had was with my buddy Vince. His dad was a beer distributor, owned the company, and would sometimes book pretty big parties or “keggers.” He would pay Vince and me to either sell the beer or pour it, like if it were “open bar.” We could make decent money in tips for maybe just four or five hours of work on top of what Vince’s dad paid us under the table. Each make a hundred dollars or more in one afternoon or evening. That was real money in 72. Cash, no taxes. Vince and me, we probably did this seventy-five times over three years. It was an easy job.

Now in 72, the drinking age was 18 in D.C., at least for beer. But driver’s licenses weren’t like today: no pictures. Just a description and date of birth. They were typed on paper, so one way to change them was to just do a typeover. Now some morons did that on their own license because obviously the description would fit them. Basically, they would just change the year on the date of birth. But if you got stopped by the cops and they noticed it, you were in real trouble – probably get arrested and have your license revoked. If you were going to do that, you had to do it to one license and then report your license lost and get another license. Even then you were taking chances; I had buddies got locked up because they gave the cop the wrong license in the dark.

My name is John but on my fake license I was Eric Savage because that is the kid whose license I stole in high school. He was the only other kid who went to DeMatha who was older than me with red hair and he was tall like me. So, I had an ID that said I was 18 when I was only 16 about to turn 17. But it probably didn’t matter because in high school I was 6’2” and weighed about 210. Even when I was under 18, people usually assumed I was 18.

I mention this because in them days you also had to be 18 to sell beer or pour beer at a kegger. If Vince or me got caught, Vince’s Dad told us to keep our mouths shut and refer the inspector – they called them “liquor inspectors” or “ABC” – Alcohol Beverage Control – to him. He wasn’t supposed to, but Vince told me that his Dad use to give ABC guys tickets to Redskins games, bottles of Johnny Walker Red, that sort of thing – keep ‘em happy. Bottom line: easier time than today.

Not that everything was good. There was Vietnam. Nixon said he was getting us out of the war, but people hated Nixon. I can remember protestors in D.C. all the time. There was even a bar called the Hawk and Dove. The Hawks were the people for the war. Protestors would mock them: “Don’t change dicks in the middle of a screw, Nixon and Agnew in 72.” Just like now in some ways, a lot of pissed-off people.

D.C. cops on the other hand, they seemed a lot more flexible than today. Cops didn’t used to be locking everybody up, especially for drinking. My old man used to tell me that when he was in high school, if you could look over the bar in D.C., you got served. Well, I don’t think it was all that different in 72. I was 17 but I could drink in many bars in D.C. Just walk in, sit down and order. And when and if I got carded, I was Eric Savage, so I’ll have a Schlitz.

Some of the cops in D.C. in those days were returning Vietnam vets. Those cops seemed to be especially lenient. Vince and me used to go to a bar on Georgia Avenue called Shepherd Park. Shepherd Park had topless dancers. A beer was 85 cents. We’d be in there and the cops would always come in the side door. They drove little scooters which they could park behind the bar. They would stand near the kitchen and eat and drink. Just beer. On-duty. In fact, in high school I thought cops were allowed to drink on duty. The D.C. cop who was supposed to be guarding Lincoln when Lincoln was assassinated at Ford’s Theatre was sitting next door at a bar right there on 10^th Street. Nothing changed for 107 years.

I’m not necessarily saying this was all good, but if you left the bar and could walk to your car, the cops never stopped you or warned you about driving. They were doing it too.

In those days in D.C. – just guessing – the police force was probably about 75/25 percentage white to black.

Back then the bars were kind of segregated along racial lines. White guys, like Vince and me, if you wanted to see dancers, you drank up Georgia Avenue or up Wisconsin Ave. north of Georgetown. Black guys who wanted to see dancers would mostly drink at bars on 14h Street. There was a big bar – three levels — called “This is it.” Of course, black guys could come into Shepherd Park, but they pretty much kept to themselves. White guys could go into This Is It, but they pretty much kept to themselves.

Believe it or not, I never once saw a racial fight. And I never wanted to see one. Believe me, some of the black guys who drank in these bars were Redskins, or on the Redskins practice squad or played ball for the Senators. Your talking muscles. They looked like the covers of muscle magazines. I remember thinking to myself that if one of them tried to kill me, I was dead. Just a fact, so I wasn’t looking for any trouble with those guys. Nobody I knew was looking for trouble from those guys. I don’t know if they were tough, but they sure as hell looked tough.

Vince’s Dad, he was Joe, but everybody called him by his first and last name together — Joe Gance. Joe Gance grew up in Queens, where black people and white people didn’t go to the same restaurants or bars. Joe Gance was ahead of his time; he decides he should do his part to fix that. Joe Gance came up with an idea he called “a block party.” The basic idea was that Vince’s dad would rent a hall with a ballfield somewhere, hire a band, invite all the black guys that frequented the bars along 14^th street and throw a big party.

And this is the genius part. At the same time, he would invite all the cops who were mostly white who patrolled the bars that he served. That way, everybody would get to know each other, everything copasetic. Life would be good in the D.C. bars, which is very good for the beer company. Vince was telling me about it even when Joe Gance was planning it. I was sworn to secrecy.

Joe Gance insisted on a couple of things to make this work. First the venue had to be outside of D.C. That way, no cop was “on duty” no matter what happened. Cops had this rule in D.C. that if they witnessed a crime, even off-duty, they somehow – the word we now say is morph – they somehow morphed into an on-duty cop at that precise moment and were required to take police action. But outside D.C., a felony could take place right in front of the cop and he was no different than Joe Citizen. Besides, by having the party outside of D.C., the department brass would be less likely to attend. Joe Gance had been in the army during World War II, he never liked the brass. This party should be with a lot of privates and corporals – guys who actually worked the beats where Joe Gance supplied the beer. You can tell Joe Gance really thought this through. He also figured that the black guys could come if they knew they couldn’t be hassled by the cops. Joe Gance told Vince that the party had to be held in a “de-militarized zone.”

Next, Joe Gance, who actually loaned us a car one time to go to New Orleans said the party had to be a little bit Mardi Gras: too much food, too much beer, too much music, women, let the good times roll. Finally, Joe Gance said that it had to be free. The idea was that “people having a good time” – these are Joe Gance’s words – “would naturally cross the orbit of the others and be drawn together by gravity.” Joe Gance was a man with a vision.

Late summer of 72, Joe Gance begins to look in earnest for a place where his block party could be held. Remember, in 1972, there was no such thing as the internet; Gore hadn’t invented it yet. The way you found parks – other than the ones you knew – was get out map books, find the pages that bordered D.C. and look for green space on the page. Joe Gance did this for two counties that bordered D.C., Montgomery County and PG County. Joe Gance found a place in Bethesda. It had advantages. It was very close to Connecticut Avenue, which was – still is — a major north/south road in and out of D.C. It was off East West Highway, so it wasn’t very far across the D.C. line. It had a clubhouse with a bar, and ball fields surrounded by woods. The place had enough parking. Joe Gance figured most guys would be coming in groups in one car anyway. The only problem was it was in Bethesda. Bethesda was – you know – rich people. Joe Gance thought about it. Vince told me that his dad was sitting in the kitchen thinking, looked at him and just said: “screw it.” Joe Gance figured he found the spot for the party.

The next part was actually planning the party. In 72, white people listed to rock music. Brothers listened to soul music. In fact, a lot of black guys called themselves “soul brothers.” I liked both types and was maybe partial to soul music. This one DJ, David Haines, used to have a morning radio show called “The Burnt Toast and Coffee Time Show.” I listened to that every morning driving to school. Still, if you wanted to please both groups – the white cops and the black bar customers – you really needed two bands. Joe Gance asked around. The white guys liked this bar band led by a girl drummer. The band was called Sun Country or something like that. The black guys like this guy named Staggs, who brought his own musicians – not always the same musicians – depending on the party. Staggs supposedly sounded like Otis Redding and really got people out on the floor dancing. Joe Gance contacted both bands through an ad in the free paper, which was mostly a rag for personals and so forth. Anyway, Joe Gance rented the hall and field. He hired both bands, for almost next to nothing, since the party was supposed to end about 8 P.M. Both bands could go play another gig, basically use the party for practice.

Obviously, Joe Gance would supply all the beer. Now he needed a caterer. Joe Gance went to an Italian delicatessen in Wheaton named Marchionni Brothers. He knew the owner. He worked out a deal for like two dozen six-foot subs, potato salad, macaroni salad, pickles, chips, and deserts. Everything was falling into place. Joe Gance asked Vince what else was needed. Vince being young and dumb said the party needed some boobs, like Mardi Gras. Joe Gance said, “But in bikinis.” A lot of the black guys were drinking in show bars. And a lot of the white cops like show bars. So, Joe Gance agreed with Vince. As I think about it, Joe Gance always had an eye for the women. I mean his wife, Vince’s mom, must have been a babe in her day. So, Joe Gance said he would talk to the owners of This Is It, Shepherd Park and Archibalds and work out the girls. Now it was time to invite the guests.

Joe Gance sat down to prepare flyers; you know paper circulars that he could pass out. Name of the party, location, date, time, live music, free food and beer, bring a date, all that stuff. The only thing he got stuck on was what to call the party. Ever since Joe Gance told Vince and he told me, Vince and me had been calling it “the cops and robbers party.” We said the cops would like their name in the name of the party, and the guys who aren’t cops would see it as a joke. Even if they weren’t really robbers, they probably would like to be called robbers, the whole Waylon Jennings “Ladies love outlaws’ idea.” That’s what it was after all: a party for the cops and a party for the guys that weren’t the cops. What is the opposite of a cop? A robber. Surprisingly, Joe Gance loved it and called it just that: The Cops and Robbers Party.

Then Joe Gance had the flyers made up and Joe Gance paid Vince and me to distribute them. This was our job. We had to go sit in Shepherd Park, Clancys, Good Guys, Archibalds, Camelot and This Is It – every go-go bar in D.C. — and give out the flyers to select persons. Basically, anybody who was a cop who came in the bar, and the black guys who drank in any of those bars who were the “regulars.” You could always pick out the “regulars” by the way the bartenders or the girls reacted.

This was a pretty good job. One day, Vince and I counted the number of boobs we saw, and it was 36 boobs – eighteen girls. Basically, each bar had three dancers a shift. We sat in six bars that day distributing flyers. All in all, we gave out about 150 flyers. Also, every flyer was marked with Joe Gance Beer Distributors. Joe Gance gets to write off everything as advertising.

The day of The Cops and Robbers Party comes. Picture this: a Kiwanis club with tables of food and kegs of beer. Girls – who were all topless dancers – in bikinis behind the food tables cutting the subs and flirting with everyone for tips. Vince and me are pouring red cups of beer as fast we could from two kegs with multiple kegs waiting to be tapped behind us. Joe Gance is walking around in a guayabera shirt, dress slacks, expensive Italian shoes, hair all slicked back and a big cigar. He is like the master of ceremonies.

The place is packed. I would say the ratio of cops to robbers is about one to one. It isn’t hard to spot the cops. First of all, most of the cops are in casual clothes but with hard shoes. And they just look like cops. They all had moustaches – like every one of them. Even the few black cops who were there looked like cops. Just the way they walked in liked they owned the place. Maybe 20 percent of the cops brought girls and most of them were dancers Vince and me recognized.

Now the robbers were all dressed cool. Unlike the cops, most of the robbers came with a girl. This was kind of funny to me. I had never seen girls go the topless bars before, and they had to know the bikini girls were dancers. But the black guys just acted like this was the most normal thing in the world, holding on to their girl’s arm and eyeing up the dancers. It was like a power thing that I had never seen before. Remember, I am 17 years old slinging beers as fast as I can pour from the tap but I ain’t missing a thing.

The music was outside but there was a wooden dance floor Joe Gance had put down like a temporary floor. The first band up was Sun Country. They start playing rock like Joe Cocker Mad Dogs and Englishmen. None of the white guys are dancing. First of all, only 20 percent of the white guys brought girls. But when Sun Country does a song called “She Came in Thru the Bathroom Window,” there is a line that says: “so I joined the police department, got myself a steady job.” The cops let loose with screams like this is the best song ever written. Now the robbers, the black guys, are just kind of smiling like white cops are stupid. Not mean, but shaking their heads and looking down, and looking at their girl and shaking their heads some more.

When the soul music started, Stagg told the crowd to get dancing and I would say more than 50 percent of the black guys and their girls started dancing – especially the slow songs. When he did Otis Redding’s “That’s How Strong My Love Is,” I would say 80 percent of the robbers and their girls was dancing.

Now I am going to cut ahead to about an hour and a half into the party — most people had already eaten something and had a couple of beers. That meant that the bikini girls started dancing by themselves, or sometimes with each other on the outside dance floor. Now that got everybody’s attention, and everybody started focusing on the dance floor. Vince and me are taking turns pouring beer and watching the bikini girls. Of course, we each were drinking when Joe Gance wasn’t near the beer. Everybody was feeling good.

Now I swear I witnessed this. Remember the groups of cops and robbers were at the party together, but it was basically two groups. The cop group and the robbers group. Both groups were mixed, but 95 percent white cops, 95 percent black robbers.

And there was some big men. There is one big white cop looked like Hercules. He looked like a professional weightlifter. In fact, I later found out he had been in the Navy on the Navy weightlifting team. Kind of like the old Soviets, these guys basically got paid to lift weights and be muscle heads. The way the problem starts: this massive man Hercules walks onto the dance floor, grabs one of the bikini dancers, who was a black girl, and starts slow dancing with her like he owned her. I think that is the moment that the mood changed in a subtle way.

Now I might have mentioned that the robbers included all these athletes – actual NFL and MLB guys and second-string athletes who drank along 14^th street and sometimes at Shepherd Park. But second-string athlete for professional football teams or professional baseball teams doesn’t mean they ain’t big and strong. It just means they are 90^th percentile, not 98^th percentile. It’s like the fire department. We have these guys who played line for Ohio State and Penn State who join the fire department. These are big men. These are strong men. Well believe me, the robbers had some really big, strong-looking men at the party.

So, after a song or two while the cop Hercules is dancing with the go-go girl, one of the giant black guys – let’s call him Samson — just walks right up out of the robber crowd, and bumps Hercules and grabs the dancer. Samson takes over dancing with the girl while Hercules stands there staring. Years later Baltimore cops coin a term that I think describes what Hercules was doing standing there. He was ‘eye-fucking’ Samson.

So now people begin to notice, and things begin getting a little amplified. People are moving all jerky, heads swiveled on necks, some of the girls began to stand closer to the dates they were with, except for one incredibly skinny girl. This girl is just standing on the dance floor screaming at Hercules, “I am sure glad you ain’t my daddy” – she used the word “daddy’ meaning her man – “because no man be kidnapping me.” If she said it once, she said it ten times.

A small point of order. I watched the bump thing happen. It was a bold move by Samson, but it wasn’t a “kidnapping.” I personally believe it was the goal of the skinny girl just to provoke a fight. She struck me as dramatic.

Hercules kept staring at Samson – to his face while Samson danced facing his way and to the back of his head as Samson turned during the dance. Anybody watching Hercules wondered what’s next? Skinny girl is still screaming her ass off about not her daddy. And next, Stagg stopped singing, and announced it was time for a short break.

Samson lets go of the girl when the song ends – the girl he was dancing with – and he kinda does this “tip o’ the hat gesture” to Hercules. Hercules just keeps his eyes locked on the guy — slowly shook his head left and right. People are all watching, even the skinny girl is quiet … finally. Samson says, “who you staring at?” Hercules says, “you.” Samson said something like – again paraphrasing – “if you feel’ froggy, jump.” I never heard that expression before, but even I understood it was kind of a “put up or shut up” throwdown.

I figure Hercules must have reasoned it the same way because he walked right over to Samson and put a shoulder into him like a lineman might put on a defensive tackle.

Game on. At the beginning it was a bit of a tussle that turned into this grappling match. Samson was attempting to wrap up Hercules and Hercules was attempting to wrap up Samson. Each man still standing in a kind of double bear hug. Four feet on the ground at first, then three, then four, then three, then two, then kaboom! Hercules landed on his back on the wooden dance floor and it sounded like the base drum at full amplification. But it seemed to have no effect on Hercules who quickly countered and was in the process of grabbing Samson’s neck, when another black guy half-heartedly kicked Hercules as they shuffled near his vantage point. One of the white cops delivered a healthy shove right to the back of the black guy who went headfirst into over six hundred and fifty pounds of moving human flesh called a grappling match between Hercules and Samson. At that point about every man began barking bad, or pushing, or swinging wild, or threatening, or cursing, or being smacked by somebody else. I would mostly say the girls started screeching and attempting to climb out of the mob that was now pretty much all pressed onto the wooden dance floor in what looked like – here is how I would describe it. You ever see a pitcher throw a bean ball at the best batter on the other team, and the batter starts out to the mound, and the catcher runs after him and the pitcher swings and misses and the batter and the catcher arrive at the pitcher at about the same time as the other seven fielders and then both benches start towards the mound and now the bull pens. It looked a lot like that.

A black D.C. cop seemed to be the only one not fighting. He steps back and told Joe Gance to call the police. Second time I don’t think he needed Joe Gance to call the police; they probably heard it at the police station. “Joe Gance, call the police!”

Joe Gance went into the Kiwanis club to make the call. I kept looking for Vince to make sure he was okay. Things were heated. Here a shirt was torn, there a bloody nose, everywhere plastic cups, plates, and food. Both bands — they were literally packing their instruments as fast as they possibly could and carrying equipment to their vans.

Within maybe 60 seconds of Joe Gance’s call, I hear this old-fashioned siren – like one of those wind-up wind down sirens and it got louder as it got closer. From where I was standing near the door, I could see the parking lot and the dance floor. This cop gets out. I would estimate him to be about 23 years old, 6 feet 2 inches tall and weigh maybe 165 pounds, or less than one quarter of the combined weight of Hercules and Samson. At 17 years old, I was just as tall as the cop and almost 50 pounds heavier and I knew I was no match for either of those guys.

But this young cop clearly thinks he is in charge. Nobody but me and Joe Gance are even paying him any attention at all until he does something quite unexpected: then, now, or ever. He pulls out his pistol and fires a shot in the ground next to his foot.

Sound of the gunshot, everybody stops moving, almost immediately. The cop holsters his gun and then orders Hercules and Samson to get up. Everybody around the grappling is basically compliant, even Hercules and Samson. Hercules and Samson let go of each other. Samson kind of jumps up first and offers his hand to Hercules, helping him up like you see football players do.

I noticed a slight difference though in the way the party cops and the party robbers are dealing with the real cop who shot into the ground. The party cops are all standing around like soldiers waiting for some sort of command. But the robbers was getting their stuff together like it was time to leave and the real cop wasn’t even there. No eye contact. I saw Samson nod to one of his buddies who walked away and came back with Samson’s hat, sunglasses.

The real cop pointed to Hercules. “Sir, I need your ID.” Hercules stands still for a couple of seconds. Without even acknowledging the cop, Samson begins stretching his neck to his left shoulder then his right shoulder like you see football players doing before the game. Hercules still hasn’t reach for his wallet. Now in a louder voice, the cop to Samson. “Sir I will also need to see your ID.”

A couple more moments of silence. Very little movement. Then Samson proves to be more talkative than Hercules. He looks at the real cop and says: “Fuck off.” Deliberate. Normal tone of voice. Just a deliberate “fuck off” to the real cop.

The real cop leans his skinny frame forward from his base and asks in this authoritative voice, “Are you talking to me?”

Now Hercules begins scratching the right side of his neck with his right fingers. Everybody knows exactly who the cop was talking to, but Hercules decides to be a dick and says: “Pretty sure he was talking to you.”

All the black guys begin laughing a little, not too loud. Samson is smiling and looking at Hercules.

The real cop doesn’t find this funny at all. He looks at Hercules and says, “I’m still waiting on your ID.” See how he did this; the real cop is going to make the white guy his bitch. I even think to myself, “slick move.” But Hercules kind of motions his head towards Samson and says: “I’ll have what he’s having.”

Quiet. Nobody laughs. Nobody laughs except Hercules and Samson. They begin laughing like six-year-olds. This boldness is infectious. Someone in the crowd makes a noise like a waitress to a bartender: “Another round of ‘fuck off.’”

Right then another real cop pulls up with his lights on and hustles to the back of the Kiwanis club. The second cop walks up abruptly with his hand clutching the pistol in its holster as if expecting a quickdraw gunfight. Maybe the first cop takes comfort in the presence of the second cop who also had a walkie-talkie. The first cop looks at both Hercules and Samson and says that he is taking them both into the station to sort this out. My first thought: I just wondered if either of these guys could fit in the back seat of a police car.

Samson looked at the real white cop. Samson was so cool. He just says: “You swinging way above your weight class boy.” It got even more quiet.

Then Hercules says: “Since when is a friendly wrestling match a crime?”

You know how sometimes you just know what another person is thinking. That fast, Samson picked up on the defense. He puts his massive arm around Hercules and says, “we been wresting since middle school.” Next Hercules: “We were just putting on a show match today.” Samson points at me. “That kid there the timekeeper.”

The cop looks at me. I look at Joe Gance. The cops look at Joe Gance. Joe Gance, who is probably the oldest guy there, and obviously somehow in charge, nods with as much sincerity as a lying beer distributor can manage. Then he turns to everybody and says, “Hey everyone, match is over, there is still food and beer left.” He spots Vince and points to the Kiwanis club.

Hercules looks at the two real cops and says in a real innocent tone: “Are you allowed to shoot into the ground?” See where Hercules is going. But immediately Samson with his arm around Hercules says: “What you talking about? I didn’t hear no gun.” Hercules nods like “true” with all the sincerity of a lying off-duty cop. You see how Hercules played this? Like look cop, do you really want to write this down?

Hercules then puts out his bear paw and – with a little bit of hesitation — the first real cop takes it to shake. Hercules squeezes the young cop’s hand and says – I’m paraphrasing – that he “appreciates the concern of law enforcement officers” and he “once thought about becoming a cop.” I’m thinking: “Hercules is a cop?” Then Samson – who is not a cop – also shakes the real cop’s hand, winks at him, and says: “I’m D.C. undercover.” Both the real cops totally buy this bullshit. The cop with the walkie-talkie tells the dispatcher to cancel any other responding officers.

The real cops leave; nobody in cuffs. Everybody begins to make their way back into the Kiwanis club for more food and beer. I’m back to pouring beer and thinking about Joe Gance. It is hard to believe, but it really was true what Joe Gance predicted.

You throw a cops and robbers party and the gravity of orbiting planets – in this case planet Hercules and planet Samson – brings them together. The gravity is so great, and orbit so close, that at first, they collide. But then, Hercules and Samson, a few beers, some cold cuts, some music, same girl, but some friendship is born from the gravity and the orbit. Joe Gance: Genius.

Clarke F. Ahlers
Fiction
© 2021