During the ten years I drove a taxi in San Francisco, there was a Jack-In-The-Box restaurant on Lombard street, between the Marina and Cow Hollow. A surprising amount of violence took place there, considering it was between these two upscale neighborhoods. It was also near The Triangle, the popular area with a collection of nightspots frequented by twenty-somethings, controlled by a daunting police presence. The drawback to the restaurant location, was the lack of police presence for the same heavy-drinking young people.
One Friday night, about 1:00am, I parked my taxi in the lot just outside the restaurant doorway. I entered, joined a line and considered the wall menu offerings. In front of me was a Hispanic trio--a stunning young girl, a husky young man and a rail-thin young man who projected a near-Gandhian non-violence. In the line to our left was a clean cut, blond man who had some issue with the husky man in front of me. The blond told husky that he would gladly kick his ass, and stepped into my line to press his face into husky's. At that moment, three clean cut young men, all 6'3 to 6'5" stepped into my line, backing up their tough talking
mouthpiece. They were all so presentable, I wondered if they were military, and maybe a basketball team. But what was clear was that they wanted trouble.
Husky wanted no violence. The foursome wasn't letting up. I drew out the lone cannister of mace that I was then carrying and held it at my side, in readiness for the impending first punch. A young ordertaker behind the counter noticed my mace at the ready, yet seemed not to notice the brawl about to begin in front of him. He motioned franticly, silently, to put away the mace. He ran over to a security guard sitting in a corner with his own burger and coffee. The guard was oblivious to the beatdown heating up at the counter.
The guard ordered the seven people out of line and grouped them over by the door while he talked to them. I assumed he was handling it appropriately, my view blocked by a thick pillar. As my order was being assembled, there was a chorus of gasps from the packed house of diners. I stepped back to see what was happening, why was everyone looking toward the door? The seven people were outside, three of the foursome were beating on Husky, the biggest of the four was stomping on something out of my view, and I couldn't see Gandhi anywhere. Husky was being restrained by his shirt, so he bent and twisted out of it and sprung free and raced back into the restaurant bare chested. I raced past him, out the door, to see the Giant standing over the Gandhi. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, and I believed he was done. Giant then stepped forward like 49er place-kicker and booted the unconscious Gandhi in the face.
I drew up my Mace cannister and began spraying Giant on the back of his head from 12-15 feet away. He checked his hair with a swipe of his hand and turned around, directly into the jet of Mace. He came at me, the jet soaking his face the entire way. I thought, "This stuff doesn't work. I'm gonna have to fight this guy." and he grabbed my arms. I had drawn a stun-gun as well, but I hadn't practiced with it, and I was now concerned that my hands were full of stuff that was of no use to me. Giant suddenly screamed, then let go of me, and covered his face with his hands. My inner voice observed, "Whew! I have to remember this stuff takes about two seconds to kick in."
I looked toward the restaurant door, the remaining three men stood abreast. I briefly considered Macing them, but decided against it. I ran across Lombard to a hotel, where the clerk let me in and allowed me to call from his phone. I reported the incident and the police responded in no more than 90 seconds. I re-crossed the street at the nearest corner and saw the three men leading their blinded Giant out of a pizza place, where he had splashed water on his face and was paper-toweling off while being guided through their escape. This image haunts me to this day. If I had maced all four, they'd have been caught.
Believe it or not, this gruesome story had a bit of a happy ending. As the police took statements from witnesses and the paramedics loaded Gandhi into the wagon, I asked Husky, "Why did you agree to go outside?"
"The cop (security guard) told us that if we didn't go outside, we were going to jail."
I went downtown several days later and bought a copy of the police report. I contacted the victims and told them I believed they had legal recourse against Jack-In-The-Box. I wrote a six page description of what I saw, told them I was a former cop, and that the guard made a grievous error in demanding that they go outside with the assailants. They contacted a lawyer, who contacted me, and we met with the restaurant lawyers. The restaurant settled, I got a nice Expert Witness fee for my involvement, and the victim's attorney called me a hero.
This was the most serious incident I'd become involved in up to this point. I noticed that I thought, sort of calmly, to myself while in the fray. I didn't panic. I considered options while in the heat of the action. I was almost...comfortable in the conflict. My re-supplier of Mace suggested I credit myself with saving the life of the unconscious victim. The restaurant lawyers said I must be lying because no one would put themselves in such danger for a stranger; we had our meeting, and they settled. And I got called a "hero." All the nice words are, still, like a warm massage.
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