October 17 Friday roundup

For this week’s “Next Comes What” podcast, I looked at the possibilities and limits of protest, and encouraged everyone who can to turn out for No Kings Day on Saturday. You can watch the episode on YouTube or listen to it via Apple, Spotify, and anywhere else you get your podcasts. If you’d like to check out the linked material or the written post from Tuesday, you can read it here.

I promised on Bluesky to write about an incident with three bikers that happened at the DC record store where I worked during and after college, so that’s what I’ll do today. I know exactly what day the incident happened—May 22, 1990—because nearly all music releases came out on Tuesdays, and that Tuesday was the release date for Madonna’s album tied to the film Dick Tracy.

I wasn’t a big Madonna fan, but “Vogue,” the lead single, had already topped the charts. Given that the album was likely to sell a lot, too, especially heading into tourist season, I’d hand-painted a display to hang in the front window. I wanted to make something evoking the Tamara de Lempicka style that had been such an influence on the aesthetics of the project—something obviously bespoke and a little snazzier than the promo materials from Warner Brothers. A regular customer who was part of the club scene noticed the display over the weekend and promised he’d come in to buy the album first thing on Tuesday.

The morning ended up being a disaster. We always had at least two people on shift, because working alone in retail in those days, you were going to get stampeded—by crackheads, by thieves, by creeps. The possibilities were endless. Two people would be enough to make most people think twice, but one was always a risk.

That Tuesday, my clerk called in sick. Someone else was scheduled to show up around 2pm, which at that point was four hours away. But in the meantime, the truck driver for our chain was dropping off all the Tuesday releases, including hundreds of copies of the new Madonna album.

I made a couple calls, but no one else could cover those four hours. I would have to make the best of it. As expected, the Madonna fan was waiting outside when I turned the key and unlocked the door. A minute later, three more customers showed up—scruffy middle-aged guys in denim and leather.

The truck pulled up right after they came in. A friendly guy we all liked, the driver would normally bring the boxes past the register and stack them there, making trip after trip with his dolly. But that day, he said he would leave the boxes just inside the front door.

The store sat in the Georgetown neighborhood of northwest DC, and parking was a bitch. The driver had gotten so many tickets while unloading deliveries that the company wouldn’t pay them and he didn’t want the cost to come out of his pocket. He was sorry, he said, but he had to be able to keep one eye on the truck while making the delivery.

Having four customers in the store was hardly a burden, but I expected more to show up any minute. My immediate goals were to haul the boxes out of the doorway and deeper into the store, open some copies of the Madonna, get price stickers on them, and just cover things until help arrived.

I fished out one copy of Madonna for the club guy. After he paid, I handed him his bag and a receipt. Moving to take it, he leaned much farther across the counter than was necessary. The three guys at the back of the store, he whispered to me, were busy shoplifting everything they could fit into their jackets. As soon as he said it, he scurried out the door.

Now I had a problem. Just as my conundrum was laid bare before me, the driver brought in the last load on the dolly. He was about to leave. He had come to us first, but other locations were still waiting for Madonna’s comic book hero–themed album.

Vengeance was in my heart as I looked toward the men at the back of the store. I didn’t want to interfere with the driver’s mission, but also didn’t want to lose my backup. I said, “Just stay for a second to help me out. You don’t have to say a thing. Just stand right there and keep an eye on the truck. Leave if you have to.”

I pulled the keys to the store out of my pocket and locked the front door. Then I put my key ring to one side, under some papers out of view.

“All right!” I yelled to get their attention, walking down the aisle. Twenty-one years old, I realized they were surely at least twice my age. And by the looks of them, they had woken up face down on a sidewalk more times than I had (once).

“The front door is locked,” I said, making eye contact. “I’ve already called the police. Give me back everything you stole, and I’ll let you out before the cops get here.”

Their heads swiveled back and forth as they looked at each another. Of course I hadn’t called the police at all. My whole strategy, I suddenly realized, hinged on not giving them time to think. I began to shout continuously.

Pacing around as if a whole platoon had them surrounded, I yelled at them to take their jackets off and throw them on the floor next to me. I was afraid to look toward the door and the driver, not knowing if he’d already bolted.

I hectored them: “Don’t push your luck! Do you want to get out of here or not?” One of them reached to take his coat off.

“Now you!” I pointed to the shorter guy, then the third, most forgettable one. Glimpses of CD cases protruded from the inside pockets of the pile on the floor. Once their jackets were off, I began going through them to pull out the merchandise.

I wanted to keep them busy while I worked. I screeched at them to lift their shirts and turn around so that I could see their bellies at the waistline. I pulled cassettes from the back pockets of one of their pants before returning to the jackets, holding them upside down and shaking them.

Altogether, more than a dozen CDs fell out. I kicked their clothes back toward them, shouting at them to get out.

As we got to the front, the driver was still there, like some silent sentinel. I unlocked the door, and they rushed out all at once, as if some physical force had bound them together.

When the door swung shut in their wake, the driver turned to me and said, “Don’t ever do anything like that to me again.”

I’ve thought about that day a lot since. A few years later, I read Watchmen and saw the cafeteria jail scene with Rorschach, where he says to his fellow prisoners, “I’m not locked up in here with you. You’re locked up in here with me.”

At first I laughed. But that was the first time it occurred to me that maybe what I did was deeply weird—maybe I wasn’t the unblemished hero of the story. What was I risking, and for what benefit?

I felt untethered from life at the time and wasn’t afraid of anything, because nothing mattered. I imagined that was the same as bravery.

Part of it was a weird sense of dignity and personal pride, too. I didn’t want to be taken advantage of. But what if they’d pulled a knife or a gun, and attacked not me, but the driver? Whatever happened would have been on me. What difference did a dozen or so CDs and a few cassettes make in the face of ugly odds on a morning when I was down a clerk?

Now, in these times of risk and standing up for things, I’ve been thinking about that day more often and in different ways. If you’re heading out to rallies and demonstrations, think twice before you up the ante in any confrontation. Especially if all this is new to you, ask yourself if you’re mistaking self-importance—or even wild despair—for bravery. Ask yourself what it is you’re actually trying to do, and who or what you’re protecting.

We are, each one of us, worth more than the entirety of the greed and power arrayed against us. Keep in mind what really matters and know in advance what you’re showing up to defend.

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