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When I was 18 my father pulled a thief out of a car parked across the street from Philip Roth’s apartment. We were walking up the block when an old man in an undershirt appeared waving a cane over his head yelling, “Stop! Thief!” My father went straight for the car, opened the passenger side door and yanked the kid out by the collar. I stood on the curb waiting for the knife or gun that did not appear the guy must have been stoned because he could have easily squirmed away. Relief came unexpectedly in the form of a big dude in a pink Izod passing by with his girlfriend. He asked if he could be of assistance, took the thief’s arm, twisted it behind his back and said, “If you move I’ll break your fucking arm.”