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Given the choice, I
much prefer to write about the lighter side of owning my own business. But
try as I might, I can find nothing humorous about the "protest"
last Thursday night, when one of my stores in San Francisco was brutally
looted.
I got the call about midnight.
Our alarm company had called my manager, and he called me as soon as he
reached the store. Two huge 8-foot by 8-foot display windows had been
smashed and the 5,000 square foot store was exposed to the street.
The looters were gone. My manager was
there with three San Francisco police officers, but the police weren’t
staying long, perhaps another five minutes. They were needed elsewhere.
My manager wanted to know what he
should do. I tried to think. The image of the truck driver being pulled
from his cab in Los Angeles and nearly beaten to death, shown over and
over again on the television news, was very fresh in my mind.
I asked him what it looked like
in the surrounding area. He said it was eerily quiet, except for a couple
of evil-looking cars cruising by occasionally.
The police were leaving, he said.
What should he do?
Never have I felt so helpless. It
was midnight and we had no construction materials to close up the gaping
hole in the store.
The damage and the loss of
merchandise (mostly NFL and major league baseball jackets and caps) was
already substantial.
The police had no answers. They
had to go; there was nothing more they could do. My manager offered to
stay the night in the store. He had been in class all night and hadn’t
seen the news from L.A. Another car, circling like a vulture, rumbled by.
What would you do? I thought of
the pictures from Los Angeles of the Korean on the roof of his store,
firing his gun at approaching looters. Admirable or foolish?
I didn’t own a gun, anyway, so
it wasn’t an option. I owned plenty of baseball bats, though, and my
manager and I discussed making a stand.
It wasn’t discussed in much
depth. The thought of lying in wait for a mob to burst through the broken
window, hoping none of them were carrying guns, and then engaging in
hand-to-hand combat…well, I’m not ashamed to say it’s not my style.
I’ll protect my family from anyone or anything, but Raider and 49er
jackets are another matter.
The police were now gone. My
manager was alone. There was no one on the street. I was 25-30 minutes
away. What should he do, he asked again. Make a decision.
I made it. Get the hell out of
there. Now. What about the store, he asked. It’s naked, an open
invitation to the looters still roaming the area. Leave it, I said, trying
desperately to think of another option. We’ll take our chances. Meet me
at sunrise.
Sure enough, the looters came
back. Smashed two more windows, stole thousands more in merchandise. When
I arrived at the store at 5:40 a.m. a local street person told me I had
missed the last carload of looters by about twenty minutes. My initial
reaction was disappointment, followed quickly by a rational relief.
He also told me an early morning
employee of the fast food restaurant next door had made three or four
trips into our open store and helped himself. I flagged down a passing
police car and they arrested the stunned employee, taking him away in
handcuffs. A small measure of satisfaction.
The damage was done: $2,500 to
replace the windows, thousands in merchandise stolen, most of the loss
covered by insurance.
As we cleaned up and barricaded the
windows all day Friday, my managers and I discussed how lucky we were.
None of my other four stores in the area were hit and others in the
neighborhood were more damaged, including another sports store down the
street carrying similar jackets and caps, which was virtually wiped out.
And then there were the tragic
stories from L.A., where businesses were torched and lives ruined.
How ridiculously sad, I thought,
to feel fortunate. I suffered through a sleepless night, holed up in my
house, while hoodlums pillaged my business. I had felt disabling fear,
vicious anger and, finally, resignation.
But no one got hurt and the loss
was manageable. We survived. And next time we’ll be better prepared.
Next time. I guess that’s why I
really don’t feel so lucky. None of us should.
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