A tale of Hazleton

The thing I have always found most annoying about listening to WILK during my work day is the usual litany of callers, talk show hosts included, waxing poetic about stuff they have absolutely no clue about. It's sad, it's obviously clueless, and it pervades most topics, if not, entire shows.

That is to say, we all have deeply-ingrained opinions which can be debated to the point of absurdity, unless, of course, you’re debating Steve Corbett. If you’re foolish enough to debate the minutiae of our fast-devolving modern life with that self-appointed know-it-all, you’ll be chastised, barked at and unceremoniously dumped long before you finish the preliminaries of your argument.

One of my favorites is the oft-repeated nonsense about how prison detainees have it far too cushy, when what they should have is next to nothing, except for the hangman’s noose.

Thanks to my chosen second and third careers, I have visited just about every prison this side of State College. And, unfortunately, I’ve spent entire days in a few of them. And to the clueless wonders who claim the incarcerated have it far too easy, I’d say with absolute certainty to them that the incarcerated have it worse than most of their many victims.

Not to single her out, but WILK host Nancy Kman is the most frequent offender whereas prophesying ad nauseum about that which does not come within a hundred miles of her day-to-day existence is concerned. She lives in the sticks and talks at us as if we're the hicks.

She knows the policing issues, she knows what cities small and large need to do, she knows which roads need to be paved, but she knows not about liquid fuel taxes, and how, when returned to the taxpayers from which they were taken from, they can only be spent/applied in low to moderate income neighborhoods.

Getting back the all-knowing wonder, Steve Corbett, he keeps going on and on and on and on about how Lou Barletta’s position on illegal (that’s illegal) immigration has resulted in a discernible loss of population and boarded up businesses for the City of Hazleton.

This ridiculously baseless poppycock on his part is an absurdity borne of abject ignorance, but why argue with someone who visits Hazleton about as often as Nancy walks the length of a cell block?

During my former life (career), Hazleton was a regular destination of mine. But unlike making deliveries in the Bronx, the Jamaica section of Queens, or parts of downtown Bridgeport, CT., never once did I ever consider what Plan A or Plan B might be in the event that I had to defend myself in Hazleton. None of that ever occurred to me while perusing the-then quiet streets of NEPA and it’s immediate environs.

While in the big city or the fast failing big cities, I was known at the time to have carried a boot knife, a stiletto and a collapsible baton. All of which were legal, depending on who you talked to, or by the length of the blades.

In Hazleton in those days, in those Italian-dominated neighborhoods, the worst I’d face was some well-seasoned Italian guy bitching about the discrepancy between the prices the salesman quoted him, and the prices printed on the invoice. Suddenly, the proprietor of Angelo’s Italian House comes to mind.

“You tell that effing salesman…!”

Let us fast-forward to Hazleton as those us of us who spend any appreciable amount of time there now know it.

Less than two years ago, a coworker of mine and I came out from a basement and found that a middle-aged Latino had opened one of the rear doors of my truck and was busily rummaging through my tools.

Unbeknownst to him, I stealthily approached and kicked the door shut that he had opened and stuck his head through. He dropped to the pavement in a lump, but the other Latinos lazing around on front porches and such had a big problem with it.

Basically, they stuck their necks out to defend one of their own who was well on his way to committing a theft. But not a one of them wanted to take up his cause in a physical sense, even though I exhorted them to do as much.

Three weeks ago, I was working within spitting distance of Angelo’s Italian House. Although, these days, with Altar Street taking on all of the debilitating reverse-gentrification aspects of a Barrio, one might want to revisit the days when the worst one might face would be the F-bombs emanating from some crusty, old Italian dude.

I was there for hours on end, but it didn’t take very long before it became obvious to me that the youngish Latino guys popping in and out of the adjoining rental property were dealing to the various and sundry visitors who came and went all day long.

Not that I was overly worried about it. The way I look at it, do your little drugs, do your little deals, and maybe someday Nancy and those of her Donna Reed ilk will walk the length of your cell block.

When the tasks at hand were completed, as I was packing up my gear, three of those Latinos confronted me. That is to say, they confronted me in a way which was meant to be intimidating. Way too close and personal to be called normal. One just off of my left shoulder. One just off of my right shoulder. And the other one right in my face.

In very broken English, the one in my face was asking if I had change for a twenty, to which I replied in the negative. At that point, he laughed out loud and said something to the kid flanking me on the left, and the three of them had themselves a giggle (I’m assuming) at my expense.

And then he repeated his request, which no longer sounded or felt like a request, while his demeanor became more tense. Again, I told him I had no change, no money, and there was no way I was going to do what they obviously wanted me to do--pull out my wallet.

When he went on again about the change, but only louder, I pulled my right thumb out of my back pocket, reached for the belt loop near the back of my Dickies and produced a claw hammer with a noticeably threatening flair. If the Boy Scouts taught me anything, they taught me to be prepared. Especially when surrounded by those who personify criminal intent.

The rest would be fairly easy to follow. Sure, it was 3-on-1, but the 1st one of my choosing would drop to the asphalt after taking a claw hammer shot to the temple with maximum velocity being the ultimate selling point.

Simple math: three minus one equals two. And 2-on-1 means less sweating, rolling around, or any of that unwanted bullspit. In almost all cases, taking the first punch combined with some over-the-top theatrics wins the day. Well, that is, in most cases.

What happened from that point forward, well, what doesn‘t kill them only makes you stronger. Something like that.

My point is this, Lou Barletta is not a racist, nor is he a one-issue wonder.

What he is is the current mayor of his hometown, his hometown that is in danger of losing control of it’s streets if it doesn’t act. And it, the City of Hazleton, has to act simply because the Fedrule Govmint refuses to act, it steadfastly and defiantly refuses to fulfill that which it is constitutionally charged to do--provide for our general welfare, provide for our safety, and maintain our sovereignty as a nation.

Y’all want to talk about Hazleton?

Yeah, then talk to someone who actually spends some time there.

Later