The C is for Crank
Stolen Goods
My temporary replacement computer.
Last Wednesday night, I got robbed.
I was sitting outside the New Freeway Hall (where the socialists meet), typing up some Morning Fizz on my Mac laptop. I don't have wifi at my house, and I'd chosen this bench because it was well-lit and right in front of the hall's window, where the Radical Women were having a meeting. At a little after 7:00, it was still light out. Naively, I believed these factors added up to a safe spot to dash off a few quick lines before going home for the day.
Out of nowhere, a young man ran past me and wrenched the laptop (a MacBook Pro) out of my hands, and took off running north on Rainier, then east on Hudson and north again on 39th.
Thinking, at moments like that, is impossible, and every instinct in me screamed "Run after him!" and I did. But he was faster than me and he disappeared down the street like he'd never been there. I banged on the window of a passerby's Volvo and begged him to help me chase my mugger, but he just looked at me coldly and shrugged. I asked, "Did you see him?" I guess the site of a hysterically crying, empty-handed, small lady must have intimidated this large, older, bearded man, because he responded impassively: "Yep, I saw him," rolled his window up briskly, and peeled away.
[pullquote]It wasn't just the fact that people were jerks when I most needed them to help me out. It was the fact that this happened in my neighborhood, less than a block from my home, and that the person who did it was, in all likelihood, my neighbor, someone I'll see again on the street.[/pullquote]
Eventually, logic kicked in (what about all the other stuff you left on the bench to be stolen by the next guy?), and I headed back to gather my remaining belongings. I couldn't find my phone, so I went into the socialist hall to call the police. I told the ladies what had happened, and asked to use their phone to call 911. As the young woman behind the reception desk started to hand it to me, an older woman strode quickly up to the front of the room where we were standing. "We don't call the cops from here," she said coldly.
Seriously? "I'm standing here crying, I just got mugged, I live right over there (I gestured toward my building), and you won't let me call 911 because you're socialists?" Before she could answer, I left. The blinds closed swiftly behind me, and a "Sorry, We're Closed" sign appeared on the door.
Eventually, I found my phone, called 911, and the cops arrived. (By this time, I'd asked everyone in the area if they'd seen anything. Most of them had just seen the crazy lady standing in the street crying.) While one cop drove around the immediate area, the other sat me in his cruiser and took my statement.
I've never sat in the back of a cop car. It's a surreal experience. The back seat is hard black plastic; the doors only open from the outside; there's a Plexiglass window between the passenger/criminal seat and the cop; and the whole experience makes you feel even less in control of things than you already did. After I gave my statement, I mentioned my experience with the socialists to the cop; he grimaced, muttered something unintelligible, and said, "that's going in the report." (Sadly, it didn't). By this point, it was dark, and raining, and I was left on the street alone, feeling pretty damn low.
It wasn't just the fact that people were jerks when I most needed them to help me out. It was the fact that this happened in my neighborhood, less than a block from my home, and that the person who did it was, in all likelihood, my neighbor, someone I'll see again on the street. ("Guys that do this kind of strong-armed robbery aren't typically into jogging long distances," the officer told me. In the report, he wrote, "The area checked clear for the suspect but due to the inclement weather it is probable that the suspect lives in hte area.").
Does it make me feel unsafe inside my home? No. And of course, worse things could have happened, and do happen, every day. But it does make me look differently at my neighbors, from the middle-aged socialist ladies to the kids hanging out at the bus stop to the guys in the shiny cars who live in the $400,000 Craftsmans up the hill.
There's a happy coda to the story, though: While I was standing around watching the cops drive away, pulling my now computer-less bag over my shoulder, two women I'd talked to earlier came driving back up the street. One of them hugged me; the other wrote a check. "Toward your new computer," she said. I haven't cashed it. But the gesture did a little, on a rotten night, to restore my faith in humanity.
Last Wednesday night, I got robbed.
I was sitting outside the New Freeway Hall (where the socialists meet), typing up some Morning Fizz on my Mac laptop. I don't have wifi at my house, and I'd chosen this bench because it was well-lit and right in front of the hall's window, where the Radical Women were having a meeting. At a little after 7:00, it was still light out. Naively, I believed these factors added up to a safe spot to dash off a few quick lines before going home for the day.
Out of nowhere, a young man ran past me and wrenched the laptop (a MacBook Pro) out of my hands, and took off running north on Rainier, then east on Hudson and north again on 39th.
Thinking, at moments like that, is impossible, and every instinct in me screamed "Run after him!" and I did. But he was faster than me and he disappeared down the street like he'd never been there. I banged on the window of a passerby's Volvo and begged him to help me chase my mugger, but he just looked at me coldly and shrugged. I asked, "Did you see him?" I guess the site of a hysterically crying, empty-handed, small lady must have intimidated this large, older, bearded man, because he responded impassively: "Yep, I saw him," rolled his window up briskly, and peeled away.
[pullquote]It wasn't just the fact that people were jerks when I most needed them to help me out. It was the fact that this happened in my neighborhood, less than a block from my home, and that the person who did it was, in all likelihood, my neighbor, someone I'll see again on the street.[/pullquote]
Eventually, logic kicked in (what about all the other stuff you left on the bench to be stolen by the next guy?), and I headed back to gather my remaining belongings. I couldn't find my phone, so I went into the socialist hall to call the police. I told the ladies what had happened, and asked to use their phone to call 911. As the young woman behind the reception desk started to hand it to me, an older woman strode quickly up to the front of the room where we were standing. "We don't call the cops from here," she said coldly.
Seriously? "I'm standing here crying, I just got mugged, I live right over there (I gestured toward my building), and you won't let me call 911 because you're socialists?" Before she could answer, I left. The blinds closed swiftly behind me, and a "Sorry, We're Closed" sign appeared on the door.
Eventually, I found my phone, called 911, and the cops arrived. (By this time, I'd asked everyone in the area if they'd seen anything. Most of them had just seen the crazy lady standing in the street crying.) While one cop drove around the immediate area, the other sat me in his cruiser and took my statement.
I've never sat in the back of a cop car. It's a surreal experience. The back seat is hard black plastic; the doors only open from the outside; there's a Plexiglass window between the passenger/criminal seat and the cop; and the whole experience makes you feel even less in control of things than you already did. After I gave my statement, I mentioned my experience with the socialists to the cop; he grimaced, muttered something unintelligible, and said, "that's going in the report." (Sadly, it didn't). By this point, it was dark, and raining, and I was left on the street alone, feeling pretty damn low.
It wasn't just the fact that people were jerks when I most needed them to help me out. It was the fact that this happened in my neighborhood, less than a block from my home, and that the person who did it was, in all likelihood, my neighbor, someone I'll see again on the street. ("Guys that do this kind of strong-armed robbery aren't typically into jogging long distances," the officer told me. In the report, he wrote, "The area checked clear for the suspect but due to the inclement weather it is probable that the suspect lives in hte area.").
Does it make me feel unsafe inside my home? No. And of course, worse things could have happened, and do happen, every day. But it does make me look differently at my neighbors, from the middle-aged socialist ladies to the kids hanging out at the bus stop to the guys in the shiny cars who live in the $400,000 Craftsmans up the hill.
There's a happy coda to the story, though: While I was standing around watching the cops drive away, pulling my now computer-less bag over my shoulder, two women I'd talked to earlier came driving back up the street. One of them hugged me; the other wrote a check. "Toward your new computer," she said. I haven't cashed it. But the gesture did a little, on a rotten night, to restore my faith in humanity.
