Unlikely Heroes

Jeff Anderson and Paul "Batman" Votava

© 2022

It was a typical, shitty, hot, smoggy summer day in the San Fernando Valley. Paul "Batman" Votava and I were running around in the early afternoon in my beat-up '67 VW Bug. The year was 1981, and punks at the time were, at best, marginally tolerated by society. Paul and I definitely had a look that caused us to stand out against the daytime valley inhabitants. Paul, sporting a neon orange mohawk and goatee, wore a tuxedo shirt, cummerbund, bondage pants, and engineer boots. He was very athletic from years as an outstanding vertical roller skater and club bouncer. He carried himself with confidence and accessorized the look with a curve-handled cane, an unassuming weapon likely to lead an opponent into a dangerous sense of superiority. In typical fashion, I was dressed in all black with a bondage belt and engineer boots. Despite our fringe appearance, we always considered ourselves good people. We rarely started trouble but were always open to opportunities where we could end trouble.

Our morning took us from our friend Aimee's apartment in Northridge up to Paul's parents' house in Granada Hills. I don't recall the reason, but I always enjoyed visiting Paul's mom and his sister Cynthia. They were good-hearted and had accepted me in their home when I had nowhere else to go. The visit was brief, and we were soon driving back to Aimee's apartment to plan the usual nighttime debauchery with the gang.

As we approached the Chevron gas station at Balboa and Rinaldi, Paul noticed a young man selling flowers on the corner and suddenly urged me to pull over so he could buy a bouquet for his girlfriend's birthday. I drove my Bug into the gas station parking lot and waited while Paul made a purchase. Paul bought the bouquet and tipped the young man selling flowers before returning to the car. Just as I was about to pull out of the gas station, a panel van pulled in and stopped behind us. Paul recognized the driver and asked me to stop so he could speak with her. Paul told me before getting out of the car that he had previously sold flowers at this very corner, and the driver of the van was the lady he worked for at that time. I parked the car again and sat with my door open while Paul approached the vehicle.

I saw Paul at the van's side with one foot propped inside the open door. Three or four younger people were in the back and the driver in front. The inside was stuffed with dozens of buckets filled with bouquets ready for sale. Paul appeared to be having a great conversation with the occupants; I, on the other hand, was beginning to get restless. In a split second, the calm afternoon and laughter were overshadowed by the loud and violent sound of smashed glass.

I turned and noticed a crazed-looking guy, crowbar in hand, smashing out the van's windshield. He was screaming some incoherent bullshit, but his actions revealed that he intended to do some harm. Paul stepped back and approached the assailant, cane in hand, swinging in a figure-eight attack so fast all you could see was a blur of motion and hear a whistling sound cutting through the air. As Paul backed the asshole up with his constant forward attack, I reached into the back floorboard and pulled out a six-foot length of chain made of one-inch links of hardened steel. I doubled the chain up and headed toward the assailant. Paul, now smiling, kept swinging the cane while I whipped the chain around my head, which proved to be a bit much for the asshole as we pressed forward. The guy yelled out to some friends of his we did not know were there. He screamed, "Come on, guys, we got these fuckers outnumbered."

That was when I saw three other guys by the wall near the far end of the gas station. They hesitated just long enough for me to realize they were not committed to this fight. I took the opportunity to ensure they would stay out of it by letting the chain go to full length, swinging all six feet. They got the message and ran off, leaving their buddy to fight his own battle.

At any moment, Paul or I could have unleashed all hell on this guy, yet we remained somewhat reserved, opting to intimidate the shit out of him. I think we were still processing what had transpired. The entire incident up to this point occurred in less than one minute.

Realizing he was outnumbered and outgunned, the attacker began to look afraid. His offensive posture and bravado of earlier had given way to a hasty retreat. Paul and I were now in the center of the gas station lot with the assailant, each of us less than ten feet from one another. The van's occupants were now yelling at us to take him out as a small crowd of onlookers watched the events.

I was to the assailant's right side as he faced me, and Paul was to my right. While my attention was on the attacker and the crowbar, I heard loud screaming.

"Police… drop the cane motherfucker."

Paul turned toward the new threat and saw a man pointing a snub nose revolver at his face. Paul planted his weight on his back leg, preparing to attack. He raised the cane, replying in a threatening tone, "Show me a badge motherfucker."

The gunman replied, "You see my gun, don't you? Now drop the motherfucking cane."

Unable to neutralize this new threat but not entirely convinced that this may not have been a friend of the original aggressor, Paul reluctantly chose to comply. The gunman then turned the barrel on me. With no other real options at the moment, I, too, decided to comply. The gunman made no effort to apprehend the original assailant, remaining focused on Paul and me.

Within minutes, the parking lot was filled with L.A.P.D.; motorcycles, cars, the old-school station wagon, a helicopter circling overhead, and C.H.P. officers all joined the party. Paul and I were face down on the hot blacktop, getting cuffed aggressively by a female officer while the instigator of all this shit was crying about being the victim of our unprovoked attack and being coddled by other officers. Believing at the time that Paul and I were the aggressors, it became obvious that nobody was listening to our side. The female officer intentionally twisted the cuffs to inflict pain. When Paul confronted her about the abuse, she stepped forcefully on his back, telling him to shut up. Paul looked at me, and I felt the same rage building that he was feeling.

It seemed like an eternity that we were lying on the scorching hot ground before we could see and hear a shift in the surrounding conversations. The occupants of the van were telling their story and showing the smashed windshield as evidence of who started the fight. Onlookers described what they saw as several officers kept glancing at the assailant and us repeatedly. Their expressions were of dismay as they heard more stories vindicating Paul and myself of any wrongdoing. After several minutes, officers finally placed the assailant on his knees and cuffed him. We saw a cop huddle with several officers and what appeared to be a supervisor.

As the cops were discussing the new evidence, I heard one say to the group, "Believe it or not, Sarge, these two over here are unlikely heroes in all of this."

After hearing this information, the commander approached Paul and me while ordering officers to remove the cuffs. He then noticed how the cuffs had been placed and asked the group of officers who had been responsible. Still cuffed and on our stomachs, Paul and I pointed at the female officer with our noses. The commander told her he would speak to her back at the station—a small but sweet moment of revenge for us.

It was immediately obvious to us that the commander was in damage control mode. He laughed and joked with Paul and me, asking Paul where he could get a mohawk like his and feigning admiration for our clothing. He said that all the witnesses had explained how we were simply protecting the lady and her workers as they were violently attacked. He said the witnesses also stated Paul and I showed remarkable restraint during the confrontation.

The commander said the young man from whom Paul had purchased the flowers worked for the assailant. The attacker thought the lady from the van had hired Paul and me to scare his kid off the corner so she could set up sales at that location. Fucking flower wars, right? The commander described why we were assumed to be the aggressors by the first officer on the scene based on appearance and the totality of the situation. It turned out the original gunman was an off-duty C.H.P. officer. He did not see the initial attack; he only saw the two of us moving on the assailant.

Despite being treated with extreme prejudice, Paul and I did not behave badly toward the officers or profess righteous indignation. Instead, we acted more like ambassadors for the punk scene and expressed how we believe in justice and will step up to protect anyone unable to defend themselves. We told the commander it was a good opportunity to train his officers not to be so prejudiced towards members of our scene. Though we may look and dress differently, that does not make us "unlikely heroes." We were simply doing the right thing for the right reason and were "likely" to do it again if needed.