Mugged

Have you ever been mugged? What was it like?

If you are unlucky you end up dead and have no tale to tell. If you end up maimed but survive, well, you will be traumatized, probably forever. If you are really lucky, you come away whole or with a minor scratch and can clock up another learning experience.

Circumstances are all different, so we simply tell one story.

Somewhere in the United States. It is nighttime and raining. The future victim is one block from the house on the way to the liquor store for cigarettes.

Standing on the sidewalk waiting for the light to turn green, three teenagers pop up.
One right in front of Now Victim, two on either side.

Teenager in front: Gimme all your money, nigger.

Not a word from the two on the sides. The victim freezes, folds his arms on his chest.

The teenager in front has no visible weapon, at least for the moment, and repeats: I said gimme all your money.

The victim continues to just stand in frozen silence. He looks toward the liquor store right across the street. He can see the clerk look in his direction. He refocuses on the teen less than a yard in front of his face.

The impasse continues, silently. There is no way to tell how much time passes.

The victim takes a step to the right, not too fast, and raises his left arm to chest height.

The assailant in front launches a punch, barely grazing the victims head because the target is moving sideways. The teen's fist does catch the side of the victims glasses, which come off and fall into the gutter.

No word is spoken during this ballet.

The victim bends down to pick up his glasses, consciously and carefully shifting his weight onto his right leg. He knows he is vulnerable in this position, he needs his left leg free to prepare to kick the kid who is now shifting his own weight slightly to prepare for a full on assault.

At this point, one of the two other teens moves into the space between the assailant and the victim, stretching out both arms toward the assailant: hey, man, stop it, let's go.

A car is pulling up to the light on the other side of the street. The driver looks at them, looks at his passenger.

The victim's right hand reaches the glasses, picks them up, while the go-between continues to repeat to his friend: let's, go, let's just go.

The light turns green. The victim steps onto the tarmac, getting more distance between himself and the teens.

It's over. As the former victim enters the liquor store, the clerk ask: do want me to call the police?

For the first time since stepping out onto the street, the victim looks back to the corner where the assault took place. No, they are gone, he says.

After chatting with the clerk for a few minutes, the former victim returns home in the rain.

The next day, the former victim calls the cell of the police officer listed as beat officer on the city police website.  I am no longer on the beat, you need to go downtown and file a report. No report has ever been filed.

In the weeks after the event, he  goes over the minute or two again and again. Later, as the silent standoff starts to fade into the background, he catches himself every once in a while thinking: if you need proof that smoking is dangerous, quote that one.

In memory of Tom
Tom was assaulted on Shattuck late at night, savagely beaten and left for dead. He spent over a week in a coma and had absolutely no speech and no control over his legs or his arms when he woke from the coma. He was John Doe until a friend walked by the open door: Tom, is that you? A limp and impaired speech were permanent damage from the assault. Tom died a few years later of a heart attack on Thanksgiving Day. No one was ever arrested for the assault.