Crime Pays (At Least a Little)

OK, so you’ve heard the one about the guy who gets called for jury duty a week before his vacation and has to put off all the classes he’s teaching. At least, I hope you have. If not, you seriously need to go back and read it. Dave wrote it last month. Or maybe the month before. Probably the month before. But go read it, because it’s pretty good. Better than this story, anyway.

But they’re both about crime, which is the topic of today’s Humor column. Because crime can affect YOU, mister smarty pants. Yeah, you. With the Doritos. Put ’em down and listen.

This is a story about how crime can strike anyone, at any time, even in the middle of a major metropolitan area with a high crime rate at 3 a.m on a deserted street with no cops around. It’s the story about how one time I went out for ice cream and lost TWO DOLLARS to a roving gang of armed bandits. It’s the story of a boy and a horse, and their love for one another. And it’s all true, except for the part about the horse, which I just made up right now.

It was the summer of 1993. Bill Clinton was firmly entrenched in the White House and a young rapper named MC Hammer was well on his way to abject poverty. I understand he’s some sort of minister now. So it just goes to show the curveballs life can throw you sometimes.

I had just graduated from high school and had my entire life ahead of me. Well, except for the part that had already occurred, which was actually behind me, if you want to get technical. I was at home with my friend Dennis, who had come to spend the night at my house because my mother had gone somewhere for the weekend and didn’t want me getting into trouble.

Remember that: My mother didn’t want me getting into trouble. And Vanity Fair says irony is dead.

So after a long night of playing fantasy role-playing games and watching premium-channel soft porn (Remember: High school! I’m actually very cool now! And quite successful with the ladies!), Dennis and I decided that some ice cream would hit the spot. So we struck out for a local convenience store, not really thinking that it was 3 a.m. and the muggers clocked in at about midnight. Hours of fantasy RPG and The Red Shoe Diaries will do that to you.

I bought one of those ice cream sandwiches where it’s actually two chocolate chip cookies with ice cream in between them. Dennis bought the latest LSD-inspired flavor from Ben and Jerry. Shine on, you crazy diamond!

So we left the convenience store. That’s when I asked Dennis if he wanted to hit the local Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home. Now, pay close attention:

Get ready for this: Dennis didn’t want to go to Dunkin’ Donuts because he wanted to save his money. And Vanity Fair says irony is dead.

So we walked in the direction of the muggers. Only at the time we didn’t actually know there were muggers there, of course. That would have been stupid.

Eventually, we crossed paths with them: Three guys walking on the same side of the street, toward us, making eye contact. We didn’t think anything about it until they stopped us.

Let’s pause here, because this is the part of the story where nearly every white person I have ever met asks the same question. “Were they black guys?” they ask. Or sometimes: “They were black guys, right?” Occasionally, even: “I assume they were black guys.”

So: Yes. They were black guys, okay? Black as the freaking ace of spades. They were considerably blacker than the white prep school boys that, for absolutely no reason, tormented me on the school bus for three years. And much blacker than the white guy who threatened to kill my mother when he held up the convenience store she worked in when I was little. Now kindly insert your head back into your rectum.

Anyway.

They stopped us, and their leader explained that they didn’t want any trouble.

“We don’t want any trouble,” he said. “And we’re real sorry to have to do this. But we’re gonna have to ask you to give us all your money.”

That’s when the guy closest to me took out the gun and pointed it at my stomach. It was a cool gun, actually, one of those guns where you cock it by pulling back on the thing that goes over the part behind the barrel. I wanted to ask him about it, maybe have him show it to me and explain how it worked, but I figured he was busy mugging me and I didn’t want to bother him while he was at work.

Like I said, there were three guys: The Gun Guy, who was next to me, who was likely chosen via some sort of Coolest Afro/Sunglasses combination contest; the Leader, who was likely chosen because he was well-spoken and also very tall; and the Lookout, who was probably chosen because he was the guy who’s all nervous and says stuff like “Guys? I got a bad feeling about this. Guys?”

The Gun Guy took care of me. Leader and Lookout shook Dennis down. Fortunately, I only had two dollars on me, since I had spent the better part of a five-dollar bill on ice cream and some other junk I can’t remember. Dennis had about $50 on him, which Leader and Lookout were more than happy to relieve him of. They took his ice cream, too. They didn’t take mine, probably because it was half-eaten.

There was this one part where the Gun Guy was patting down my pockets and found my house keys. When he asked what they were, I showed him and told him he couldn’t have them because I needed them to get back into my house. He said okay.

In retrospect, this was very stupid. I mean, he had a gun, you know?

So they finished mugging us and we all came back together to close the deal.

“Okay,” said Leader. “Thanks for your time. Sorry to have bothered you.”

He seriously said this.

“Hey,” I responded. “Anytime.”

And we parted ways. Or at least, we tried to. It turned out we were all going in the same direction.

“Look,” said Leader. “You can’t follow us.”

“Well, we’re going this way too,” I said.

“But you can’t follow us.” He was pretty clear on this point. We’re pretty sure the Gun Guy was in his camp too, which made any subsequent discussion purely academic.

“Okay, how about this,” I said. “We’ll hang out here for a few minutes while you guys get going. Then after we’ve given you a sufficient head start, we’ll get on our way.”

Leader thought about this.

“Okay,” he said.

They turned around and walked away. They looked in the plastic bag they stole from Dennis to see what kind of ice cream they got.

So we went home. I was a little shaken up, and so was Dennis. We didn’t call the police, mostly because we forgot.

All in all, it was a pretty good experience, and well worth two dollars for such a cool story. It impresses people, anyway, and I get to feel all intrepid when I check “yes” on surveys that ask if I’ve ever been the victim of a violent crime.

But I guess we failed in our primary goal, which was to get ice cream. I mean, I still had my ice cream after the mugging, but Dennis grabbed it from me and threw it in the gutter when I started gloating about it. So we went out to get ice cream, and came back with none.

And Vanity Fair says irony is dead.