My six-year-old daughter and I walked the cold, bare lines of February evening concrete in Philadelphia’s Chinatown. We were seeking a favorite restaurant after spending the afternoon at the Franklin Institute’s BodyWorlds exhibit, trying to see in those brilliantly split cadavers what makes us work.

We passed a promising restaurant, and I peered through the glass at the menu. Most were indoors that night, but down the street I heard yelling, some muted profanity. I didn’t even look up at these night cries of the winter city, and the menu wasn’t familiar, so we walked on.

From the direction of the profanity, a man made for us, cutting across the street diagonally. He was disheveled, stocky, short; he had a thick beard and wore a dark Eagles jacket. He was no one I knew, yet he glared at me and flicked a cigarette across my path. As the cigarette bounced in front me and he bulled by, I looked back at him, catching this man’s eye, seeking someone perhaps, but instead seeing only mean intent.

Such meetings are odd. My daughter and I walked a bit more and saw our restaurant. We walked into reddish light, and a waitress approached, and I asked for a table. A few other tables were filled. I saw another little girl.

I had a sense of warning. I turned to see someone rip through the door and come at me. I pushed my daughter behind me. A face big with rage. Arms cocked, twitching with menace. The face spewed curses, threats. I rocked back, bewildered. This face couldn’t know me. I said to it: You have the wrong guy.

I saw the Eagles emblem on the jacket, and I realized it was the bearded man. His eyes, which were white, piercingly clear,  unnaturally focused, were hateful. My mind was mired. Was he insane? Was he high, wasted?

He threatened to kill me. I pointed behind me to my daughter. “My daughter’s here. You have the wrong guy.” I thought he mistook me for some ancient rival. He was between us and the door. I glanced around, but the the people in the restaurant were stunned and unmoving. “Someone call 911!” I cried. “I’ve never seen him before!” They all stared, including the little girl. Perhaps they thought I had ruined dinner by bringing a street confrontation into their restaurant.

One of the waitresses, no more than five-feet tall, stepped between me and the man. He ignored her, flexing his arms, jerking his torso at me: “C’mon, bitch!” In clipped English, she urged him out. He spewed profanity and threats. Then he jerked his body again and said to no one, “If he gives me 75 cent I’ll leave.”

I watched him avoid the waitress, this small woman, and I realized my thought you have the wrong guy was flawed. He followed me from the street. Why? Because of my daughter? My daughter. My mind began to churn. She was being subjected to something awful. Yet this small waitress was unafraid, as if she knew him, a local lunatic who had come after me in a crude shakedown. I was vulnerable because I had a child with me. Fuel started running through me. The confusion, fear turned into something else.

I have tried so hard to escape the past, to be a responsible adult, teacher, coach, friend, neighbor, father. But fuel was running unchecked through me, and a primal real emerged. Something that had lain hidden for years was being fed, the deep coding of fight.

I only have credit cards, I said. He said, “I”ll take them then.”

The fuel was streaming, and I realized for the first time how a threat to my family opens that valve completely. You get nothing, I said, challenging now. I watched the waitress point him out the door, and I stopped thinking about escape. I looked at the big restaurant window and thought that was the way he was leaving. He was stocky, wild-eyed, nothing to lose, and although anything could be secreted in his heavy jacket, but the fuel created a plan that said my chances were good.

Now all he had to do was touch that waitress.

I got ready. Took a deep breath, leaned back, prepared for a war.

But I glanced at my daughter, and the fuel valve was shut. I saw in her stunned eyes that she was not even processing the confrontation, the language. I saw this man was not going to touch the waitress. He was no physical threat to me. And I knew something then: My daughter could not see her dad in a fight — no matter the outcome, I would be no hero. The memory would never leave her. That would be the awful thing.

Without the fuel diluting it, a bizarre thought came into focus, strange as it was at that moment: “What would Atticus Finch do?” That’s what I thought. Atticus took that spittle in the face from Bob Ewell.

Another expletive-laced tirade, this time accompanied by racial, even sexual threats. Finger thrust at me. A promise to kill me. But the waitress shooed him out. The spittle dripped down my face.

A woman came out of the rest room. Having only heard the exchange, she could take action. She handed me a cell phone. I clutched my daughter, caught the eye of the other little girl in the restaurant, and tried to call 911, but my fingers were quivering with the unspent fuel. The woman took the phone and dialed it for me. I started talking, and the waitress took my daughter aside, so I followed the man outside.

In one of those great moments of fortune, a bike policeman appeared.

I babbled out the story to this Officer Ho, and a second waitress came out and added details. We saw the heavy dark jacket a half-block away. Officer Ho pointed his bike at the jacket and pumped the pedals. He shouted “Stop!” several times, but the jacket moved on. The officer leaped off his bike and threw the jacket to the ground behind several parked cars. There was little struggle, and a squad car responding to the 911 call arrived moments later.

My daughter, with a handful of hard candy and a fortune cookie, came outside with the first waitress. Drawn by the flashing lights, a small crowd formed, and we all stood together in the cold, trying to see the group obscured behind the cars. The jacket was shoved into the squad car. It was over quickly, and Officer Ho came back, placid despite the melee, and took down my story in a notebook. When I mentioned the 75 cents, he raised his eyebrows: “This is attempted robbery.” Could I come downtown to give a statement?, he asked. But seeing my daughter,  he said I could give a statement another time.

I thanked the waitresses and compulsively told my tale to a stranger in the crowd. The police left. My daughter chewed her cookie, and I realized the whole incident had only taken seconds. She hadn’t processed it, and maybe never would.  She wanted to know why the man was yelling at me, her daddy, but it seemed she hadn’t heard the actual words, the threats.

We couldn’t flee, back to the suburbs, hide that night from the press of humanity, all of it. I had to do what Atticus Finch from tired Maycomb would do were he in Philly’s Chinatown that night with Scout. Still so full of unspent fuel that I couldn’t hold chopsticks, I went into the restaurant, and my daughter and I ordered a nice Chinese dinner. The waitresses treated her like a queen.

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Scott Warnock

Scott Warnock is a writer and teacher who lives in South Jersey. He is a professor of English at Drexel University, where he is also the Associate Dean of Undergraduate Education in the College of Arts and Sciences. Father of three and husband of one, Scott is president of a local high school education foundation and spent many years coaching youth sports.

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