Tuesday, July 27

I Got Mugged. Crap.

It was one of those really freaking hot days last week, and I was walking back from The Bar at 3:30 in the afternoon. Some old guy, maybe homeless, most likely a very desperate addict of some sort (OK, I'll say it. Crackhead.), jumps out in front of me, seemingly from nowhere, and reaches for my purse. And me with my bright pink top, brand-new large silver purse, big-ass sunglasses, and iPod at full blast, have no idea what the hell this sweaty, crazy-eyed dude wants. I pop out my earbuds, and I hear him say something about my purse, and "knife." Now I'm panicky. I glance over to his right hand, and oh, of course, he's got a big fat kitchen knife in his hand, complete with a glinty 12-inch blade. "Okay, okay," I say, kind of pleadingly, and hand over the purse he's been grasping for. He takes off up the street, and I realized in less than a second that he has everything: house keys, cell phone, book, FUCKING WALLET, I mean, e-ve-ry-thing.
The Corner.

So I take off after him. Screaming. Waving my hands at all the people driving by in their closed-windowed, air-conditioned cars. Not getting any kind of response. And I run my ass off. He leads me down this alley, holding onto the knife and rooting through my brand-new purse (motherfucker, you fucking motherfucker). He gets the wallet out and tosses the purse over a high wooden fence. Good, you piece of shit, take the wallet. I have tears streaming down my face, and I stop chasing him. I see the direction he goes in. I run around to the front of the houses where my purse has landed, and I catch some Sears repair guy taking a street piss and using his driver's side door as his shield. (Tough shit, Repairman, zip it up.)
Through my tears and at this point, my breathlessness, I tell him I just got mugged and turn my back and start banging on doors. He starts asking me if I need to call the cops, and I actually think to myself that I don't need to. What? The? Fuck? Am? I? Thinking?
"Yeah, please, call the cops."
He dials the number (that would be 911) and hands me the phone. And so help me God, I don't know how I do it, but I calmly tell the dispatcher what happened. My breathing slows to a relevantly normal pace, and I give them every single detail of what happened in less than 2 minutes. (Damn, when did I get so good at calling 911?) And here's the biggest kicker of them all; a cop car responds within a minute.
This infant of a cop, braces in his mouth, instructs me to get in the cruiser, and I do. I check my face out in his side-view. I'm flushed, sweaty, smeared, and streaked. I'm a damn mess. Fuck you, Crackhead.
He takes me around the area, asks me some simple questions, and I answer them.
"Oh, I remember everything about this guy."
"Nope, way older than that, like in his 40s or so."
"Black shirt, dark green pants, no facial hair, close-cut hair."
"No, I don't see him anywhere. I know where my purse is though. I ran after him."
The cop, who actually takes a pass at some jokes that I don't laugh at, takes me to the alley where he threw my purse. And we find the purse almost immediately. I can see my book laying in the backyard, and I see the reflection of it in the sliding glass doors of the house. Hallelujiah. I actually feel like I just won something.
More cops come, he gives them a breakdown. One of them points to me and asks, "Is this the victim?" And I get pissed. I'm not a victim. I've never been a victim. Am I a victim? Shit.
I get back in the car, and go back around to the front of the house, as the Cop with Braces tells me what's going to happen. They're gonna get the purse back. A detective is going to ask me some questions. They're going to try to find the guy using my description. I can only pray it's good enough.
Detective Typical shows up, and I switch cars. He takes me back to the exact spot where it happened, and takes my statement as I soak up the air-conditioning he set to full blast when I got in. Ten minutes pass, the Victim-Naming Cop shows up, and he's got my purse in his hand. I check it.
Everything but the wallet.
One of the cops gives me a slip of paper with my case number on it, all his pertinent information, and instructions on what to do if I see this fucker again. Done. Detective Typical asks me if I would like a ride home, and I decline, much to his surprise.
This is MY neighborhood. I will walk home on my own, thank you very much, Officers. I really appreciate everything. Yes, we'll be in touch.

This is my neighborhood.
And I start hyperventilating on the way home.

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