There Goes the Neighborhood

Strangers are coming to Philadelphia. Some of them are already here. One of them is living in a weathered, bronze-colored mini-van in front of my house.

Saturday afternoon was when I first noticed him. My son and I were playing with our new water guns on the front steps of our home in South Philly. I didn’t pay much attention when he got into the van — my block is one of the few in my neighborhood without restricted parking, so at any given time half or more of the cars on the block don’t belong to my neighbors. But later I realized he hadn’t pulled away. He was just sitting there, with the side door open.

The van stayed there the rest of the day and into the night, with him in it most of the time, as far as I could tell (some of the windows are tinted). It disappeared Sunday morning, but returned in the afternoon. By then my wife was getting mildly disturbed by its presence, and she asked if we should call the police.

The same thing had crossed my mind. But then I thought about my colleague Gwen Shaffer’s article last week on the West Philly folks who got busted for entering a construction site to watch fireworks but were interrogated for hours about their presumed affiliation — based on their admittedly disheveled, "weird" appearance — with groups planning to demonstrate during the Republican National Convention. And if that’s all it takes to earn an interrogation in Philadelphia these days, then anyone living in a van would be in for a very long night.

On Sunday night I decided to talk to him. He was lounging on the middle seats of the mini-van when I approached and introduced myself. I told him I had noticed that he’d been spending an awful lot of time in front of my house, and I thought I should find out what’s up.

He apologized immediately, saying it wasn’t his intention to "freak anybody out." My block, he explained, offered free parking and an easy walk to Center City.

"Are you in town for the convention?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, a little warily.

"Are you with any particular group?"

"No," he said, now looking uneasy, "I’m kind of an independent."

When I asked his name, he said, "Most people just call me Slug." He seemed not to want to divulge anything more, so I didn’t press him. I admitted that I’d guess he was a visiting demonstrator. He smiled and nodded, then mentioned that a lot more are on the way. They won’t have anywhere to stay either, he added, so they’ll just stay…wherever.

I apologized for intruding, and told him that while I couldn’t speak for the neighbors, he wasn’t bothering me and could continue to camp in front of my house if he chose. He thanked me. The van was still there Monday morning, and I won’t be surprised if he has company in there by the weekend.

But unless he starts getting noisy at night, pissing on my front door or otherwise making a nuisance of himself, I won’t chase him away. He’s been far less disruptive than the noisy patrons of the Italian restaurant across the street.

I can only guess at his politics, but I do know that he has chosen to live in a mini-van for two weeks in order to promote whatever it is he believes in. The closest I’ve ever come to such commitment was sleeping outside to buy Live Aid tickets. I haven’t even made it to a meeting of my neighborhood’s civic group.

Like the convention delegates, Slug is here because the event is important. He has a role to play. So what if he sleeps in a mini-van in South Philly and not a hotel room? That shouldn’t make him less worthy of my consideration. Hell, tonight, after my wife goes to bed, I may even take him a beer and a sandwich.

If you would like to respond to this Slant or have one of your own (650 words), contact Howard Altman, City Paper news editor, 123 Chestnut St., Phila., PA 19106 or e-mail altman@citypaper.net.