I Was Robbed.

I was robbed. He took my wallet, inlcuding my driver’s license. But there’s one license that he couldn’t steal- my poetic license. The names and places have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty, but I imagine if the thief decided to do a Google search after examining the contents of my wallet, he’d probably find this story.

It happened very quickly, like a band-aid being ripped from a hairy scab.

“Give me your wallet and your purse.”

My roommate and I had been walking down the street to a housewarming party at my friend’s house. She just moved in a block away. We couldn’t remember the address. “Was it 647? 643?” A man approaches us in dark clothing.

It’s a nice brisk autumn night, not quite cold enough to see your breath, but chilly enough that a hat would be both functionable and fashionable. If you were driving, you’d probably need the defroster to see through the windshield, but as I mentioned earlier we were walking.

I give the neighbor a polite head nod. He nods back and says, “Give me your wallet and your purse.” He reaches in to his front pocket. Am I getting robbed? Is this how it happens? Why is he reaching in to his pocket? Oh yeah. The gun. I forgot he had to flash the gun. So freakin’ cliché.

I roll my eyes and reach slowly in to my back pocket. While pulling my wallet out, my credit card falls to the ground. At my feet, there’s a nice little ID sized picture of me just grinning. “Hi. It’s me! Smile! Theft protection picture!” The robber and I both look at the card at my feet and then make eye contact. “Do you want me to get that?” He took too long to answer, so I assumed it was a “yes.” I kneel down and pick it up and hand it to him. Real politely. I’m a gentleman and all.

He asks my roommate if she’s got a wallet or a purse. “No. I don’t have anything on me.” He asks her if she’s lying. Like he’s gonna give her a real freakin’ lecture on honesty right there on the sidewalk. “I swear. I don’t carry a purse or a wallet.” In retrospect, this would have been the time for him to ask her to commit to a pinky-swear. He didn’t.

“Excuse me,” I say, “There’s this coin that somebody gave to me once. It means a lot to me. Do you think I could at least keep that?” He refuses and tells us to walk the other way. I wanted to tell him that I now realized we were literally standing just outside of the front porch of the party and I really didn’t feel like walking further down the street since we had reached our destination. I didn’t.

After we turn the corner, I look over my shoulder. He’s evaporated, vanished, poofed. I flip open my cell-phone. Ha. My cell-phone. He forgot to ask for my cell-phone. Dial 911.

“What’s your emergency?”

“I was robbed.”

“What’s your location sir?”

Shit.“647? I think. 643 maybe.”

“Where are you now sir?!”

“I’m fine! Don’t worry about me. You need to catch this dude.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Navy blue jumpsuit, track jacket thingy. He also had on a blue bucket hat. It was a really ugly hat.”

“Excuse me? A bucket hat? What’s that? What race was he?”

“African-Ameri… black male. He was a black male.” I realized we didn’t really have a chat about his citizenship.

I stayed on the line giving descriptions about the perpetrator’s poor fashion choices until a cop car showed up 2 minutes later.

The party was still going on inside, but I found myself with two officers writing down descriptive adjectives on a notepad.

“Did he have a weapon?”

“Yes.”

“What type?”

How am I supposed to know names of weapons? I started thinking of rap lyrics in my head.

“Nine milli?”

“Semi-automatic?”

“I dunno. He didn’t shoot. It was small and shiny and dark. It matched his outfit.”

They ask me about his height. “He was your size. I’m not implying anything, officer.”

They ask me about his facial hair. “He wasn’t really cultivating a look, but he wasn’t really clean-shaven.”

I wonder if I’m even helping. They begin asking about the contents of my wallet. I tell them $40 cash, but then change my estimate after telling them about what I got at the lunch buffet that charges by the pound, and then about the potato knish I had after work. In the end we establish that I probably only had $28 in my wallet. I need to work on my spending habits.

“Anything else?”

“Credit cards. Health insurance card. AAA. My Sub Club card, but I heard they discontinued their program. Serves the asshole right.”

The officers nod and write something down on the notepad. They ask me to wait for the detective to arrive. I ask them if I can go inside and see my friends for a bit. “Sure.”

“Do you guys want anything? Coffee?” They stare. They’re waiting for the donut joke so they can beat me with the nightsticks. “Coke?” I meant coca-cola, but for a second there I thought I might be involved in a drug search. I invite them inside, but they think it’s better to stay outside and they promise they won’t break up the party.

Inside, my friends ask me “How you been?”

“Great!”

“What you been up to?”

“Oh. Well. Umm. I just got robbed.”

Dammit. Here we go. I didn’t want to be dramatic, so I tell jokes. It’s my defense mechanism, I guess. Unfortunately, it’s not a self-defense mechanism during robbery. “Good luck with that wallet, man. I’m so broke… I ask for free refills without buying the initial soda. Oh come on. Sympathy laugh?”

After making sure that I was really okay and all, my friends speculate about whether or not I will be googled by the perpetrator. If they find out I work for a progressive political organization, do you think they’ll return the money? What do you think he’s trying to purchase on Amazon right now? A new hat? What’s his username? Thief9Milli@hotmail.com.

We laugh about how the credit card company just asked me for my 16 digit number when I reported the card stolen. How am I supposed to know that!? The representative from Bank of America sounded like she really cared about my well-being after I told her I was robbed.. When she asked for my birthday to verify my information, I added that I was a Taurus. She laughed. I thought about asking her out, but figured this probably wasn’t appropriate protocol.

The cops knock on the door, and people are worried they’re breaking things up. Nope, they’re just looking for me. “Ooooh.” The detective is here and he wants to have a word with me.

“Hey amigo!”

“Yessir.”

“No, not you. Officer Amigo.”

I look at the other officer’s badge. His name is, indeed, Officer Amigo. They chat about some police stuff while I watch.

We go over some more questions while they continue listening to the police scanner. If they catch somebody soon, I’m gonna ride along with them and do a drive-by idenitifcation. The static on the scanner scares me more than anything. I hear snippets of reports of missing cops, beatings, robberies with actual violence. They ask more questions.

“What kind of complexion was he? Was he very dark, or lighter skinned?”

I hesitate. “Ummm…” The female African-American officer chimes in with a rhythmic cadence, like it’s some sketch comedy routine, “Was he lighter than me or darker than me?”

“This is awkward,” I say. “About the same.”

I feel sick.

I’m sick of talking about it. I want to move on. Go inside. I don’t want to talk about race anymore. I don’t want to think about the guy that got murdered last month. I don’t want to have the inevitable gentrification discussions. I didn’t want this.

So, sir. If you’re reading this: Can I have the coin and my driver’s license back? You can keep the Sub Club card.