Once, when I was young, I WALKED from Berkeley all the way down Telegraph to downtown Oakland in the middle of the night. (I was in the grip of a severe depressive episode at the time and was not rational.) Along the way I remember seeing a crowd of black guys corner a white punk rocker in a phone booth and beat him unconscious (or dead — I couldn’t tell).
Somehow, my Guardian Angel prevented me from meeting a similar fate; no one noticed me at all.
Man, that’s dodging a silver bullet.