So honestly, it wasn't that unusual when a man approached me at 11:45 last Monday night. I was talking on the phone to my friend outside the subway stop in my neighborhood; it's a tree-lined street and there are generally, at all times of day, people walking their dogs, leaving or entering the subway tunnel, chatting on their phones on their way to somewhere. I was doing just that, chatting on my phone and leaning against a cement embankment, my gym bag, a bag of clothes that a friend had given me, and a bag of munchies on the ground beside me. My purse hung on my left shoulder and I held my phone to my ear with my right shoulder as I reached in for a stick of gum.
I think I need to find things that people do a little more bizarre, because when I saw out of the corner of my eye a man looking at me through the windows of an SUV, his arms overhead making something of a tent with a black windbreaker, I thought nothing of it. I thought less of it when he came up and asked me if I had any money. The windbreaker was draped over his head like a hoody. I told him that no, I did not have any money and continued my conversation. He mumbled something and I indicated my phone, ignoring him. He then said, "show me your purse." At that point things started to slow down in my mind; I noticed that he was clean-shaven and had a soft, baby-like face. He stood about 5'8", probably weighed in at about 170, and had dark, wavy hair. He was wearing a wife beater but not ribbed, baggy blue jeans and sneakers. He spoke perfect English and didn't seem high or homeless. His right hand, I noticed at last, was in his pocket. He asked me again to show him my purse. "I'm not going to show you my purse." I tell my friend that I will call her later, hang up the phone but keep it in my hand. He wants to see the inside of my purse. I tell him no. He tells me again, "show me your purse" and from his pocket comes a knife whose end glinted in the streetlamps, "or I'll kill you." I felt my body lean toward my belongings on the ground for what was probably a millisecond but felt like a minute, and then I ran, ran with my purse securely under my left arm as fast as I could across the street and down the hill. I didn't even look as I sprinted across Broadway, which was blessedly free of traffic. I ran, panting, into my apartment where my roommate looked at me with startled eyes. "You just called me," he said. "Did you mean to call me?"
After pacing around a bit, I made a mental list of the things I had lost: gym clothes, umbrella, brand new Kleen Kanteen water bottle, favorite Aldo boots, arm warmers (they're like leg warmers, but for your arms and matched the sweater I was wearing), and oh! My journal! His having access to my private thoughts smarts the most. My roommate suggests that I call the police, who came promptly to my apartment and took a report. I retell the tale and they leave, but come back shortly thereafter. They want me to come talk to the detectives. It was 1:00 a.m. It was important, they told me, because a woman had been robbed a couple of nights earlier in the same area but he followed her into her building. The scenarios sounded similar, would I mind coming in? I take my first ever ride in a NYPD squad car to the precinct, where I was immediately deflated, disappointed, and intrigued by the dilapidated, hard-worn surroundings of the precinct building. Everything looks as if it is lit in blue lighting, harsh overhead stuff shining garishly on cracked tables strewn with styrofoam coffee cups. I am led up a narrow flight of steep stairs to meet my detectives, who seat me in front of an ancient, sluggish computer and ask me to please, look at mug shots.
My precinct is 1 1/2 miles, the detectives tell me. I give him the description of the man to narrow the search in the database, and up come the pictures. HUNDREDS of them. I go through them scrupulously and look at the clock. 2:00 a.m. I sense my detective growing impatient, and he comes to the computer to widen the search. I go through hundreds more, and see who I think might be the guy. He takes the information then hands me a clipboard with photocopied mug shots and I look through the 2 inch stack. 3:00 a.m. Then they suggest that we go back to the scene to see if he left any of my belongings. My bags are gone but the Diet Sierra Mist I had been sipping and had left on the embankment remained untouched. We then looked through bushes, garbage cans, and dumpsters but found nothing. When I arrived home it was 4:00 a.m. I drove around with the detectives a couple of nights later hoping to see the man who attempted to rob me, but found nothing.
Strangely, the whole time it was going on I knew somehow that I was safe. Whatever force of good that exists in the universe was there, it seems. And truthfully, if you're going to get mugged it was the best way to go: there was the underwater quality of it, the casual and non-aggressive approach of the mugger, the streets free of traffic as I sprinted across them, the fortuitousness of having nothing of value in the bags that remained behind. But, and there is a big but, I made mistakes: I lingered outside of a subway stop talking on the phone. I see people all day every day with their noses in their phones, and it makes us all easy targets. I likely inflamed him by being flippant. Also, if you are mugged and are on the phone don't hang up. And scream. Scream like hell to attract attention. I was impervious to my vulnerability; a lone, smallish woman talking on her phone at night, laden with many bags. I might as well have had a "rob me" sign tattooed on my forehead.
The next day (or I guess it was the same day) I had a go-see for Oprah Magazine. A good friend of mine works for them in the book division, so I stopped by her desk to say hello. As I told her the story of my day, she said, "You should write a screenplay or something. That doesn't happen to anyone I know." So I thought of the previous 24 hours: waking up with no hot water, running out the door to a workday that ended with my boss reading one of his favorite poems, babysitting my favorite little man, getting mugged at knifepoint, dumpster diving with two hardened NY detectives, sleeping for what felt like minutes, back to work, having a conversation with Gayle King about real estate, and ending with a coffee with an old, wonderful friend, well, it did seem a little surreal. And wonderful. Harshly beautiful, loving and humbling. Life can change instantaneously and open instincts that are long ensconced.
So be safe, everyone. Please.
