A few weeks later, Tom was helping Amon with the house on Simonson Avenue, along with some of the new residents—a motley crew of former drug addicts, alcoholics, and vagrants of different backgrounds and hues. Renovations had progressed to the point where the house was in mint, live-in condition. Amon’s project had been publicized in a lengthy article appearing in the Staten Island Advocate, which included pictures of the young stranger, Tom himself, and the residents of the refurbished Victorian house.
Tom was painting a second-floor window frame, when he noticed three sullen men emerge from a black sedan and approach Amon, who had been sweeping the sidewalk. From their hostile looks, it was clear the men were not part of a welcome wagon.
After identifying themselves as part of a “community watch group,” the men told Amon that they didn’t appreciate his “housing undesirables in Mariners Harbor” because of the threat of crime to a decent neighborhood.
“You and your do-gooder friends are bringing criminals, drug addicts, drunks, and prostitutes into this area. And we’re not gonna put up with it,” said a burly middle-aged man who looked anything but law-abiding.
Annoyed by the group’s aggressive intrusion, Tom climbed down the ladder and talked to the heavyset man in a didactic manner.
“Listen, sir. We have obtained permits from city hall for the building. Everything Is legit,” he replied.
“Anyone who comes to our door is welcomed, regardless of circumstances, color, or creed. Everybody pitches in, and no one is questioned about their past,” Amon added.
“That’s great! Take any lowlife that walks off the street,” one of the men said.
“There’s a need for housing for the poor. Who could object to such a worthwhile endeavor?” Tom answered, as if he was lecturing one of his students.
“I heard about you. You’re a teacher at Curtis High School. I’m a personal friend of Lou Stout. So keep your mouth shut, sonny boy!”
“Are you threatening me?” said Tom, growing angrier by the minute.
“That’s right.” With that, the heavyset man punched Tom in the jaw, instantly knocking him to the ground.”
Then he turned toward Amon, while his cohort attempted to grab Amon from behind. With a sudden powerful movement, the young stranger flipped the wiry thug behind him and blocked an attempted punch by Tom’s attacker, twisting the latter’s arm so severely that a loud snap of a broken wrist was heard, accompanied by a squeal of pain from the middle-aged bully. The third member of the group raised his hands in surrender, asking Amon if he could call for an ambulance.
“Gladly. The sooner your friends are removed from the premises, the better,” Amon said, stooping down to look at Tom’s bloody nose.
Looking up at his friend, the skinny teacher said, “It’s not the first time I’ve been decked.”
“Whenever there’s a disagreement, why does it always come to this?” Amon asked rhetorically. He bent down and started rubbing his assailant’s broken wrist. Immediately his attacker stopped moaning and looked up at the stranger with a look of total surprise.
“My arm feels better. How the hell did you do that?” he exclaimed.
“It’s mind over matter. You’ll be fine. All I ask is that you tell your friends in the neighborhood to leave us alone,” Amon replied.
The man nodded and left with his stunned cohorts, with Tom watching in amazement, as if he had just witnessed a supernatural event.
“I’ll say one thing, Amon. You definitely know how to handle yourself.”
“It’s something I picked up along the way. But violence is not the answer.”
“When words fail, blows succeed … unfortunately,” the skinny science teacher observed.
“Might does not make right. Kindness and virtue make right,” Amon said somberly, dabbing Tom’s bloody nose with a handkerchief.
“Violence is as American as apple pie. It goes back to our frontier days,” Tom replied, examining the bloody handkerchief.