Column: A Little Gratitude

I've been going the cynical route for a while now, but I'm trying to be a little more sincere this year. After all, there are some things for which I'm genuinely grateful. I'm grateful to be a senior. I'm grateful to live right upstairs from a bar. I'm grateful not to be invited to Stonewall McKenzie's birthday party. I'm grateful to be writing a column for Thanksgiving and not Valentine's Day. I'm even grateful that the faculty decided to make me declare a major before letting me register for classes. Otherwise, I just might have forgotten all about it all the until graduation. Really, I might have. But let me tell you what I'm really grateful for, and that is the kindness and generosity shown to me by the criminals of the West Philadelphia area. They've been very good to me, much kinder than I deserve. For three years, I walked the streets of West Philadelphia with impunity; I strutted down deserted alleyways in perfect isolation, always believing myself impervious to the city's perils. But those kindhearted Philly criminals, they never laid a hand on me. Even when I lived past 44th Street last year, and frequently walked home from campus by myself well after midnight, I never felt threatened, and the sanctity of my apartment was never violated. I was beginning to think all the reports of a crime epidemic were just anti-establishment propaganda from the self-righteous, leftist media. Then I got robbed. It was bound to happen, with my reckless behavior. I was the quintessential arrogant Ivy League brat, presuming to walk down the streets to my own house without injury. Let's face it, I deserved to get robbed. I was walking down Walnut toward campus when two guys with one gun stopped me around 42nd Street. They looked like they were about my age, pretty well-dressed for the neighborhood. They didn't seem like crazed psychopaths, just a couple of guys having a little fun with a gun. One of them -- I'll call him "Bert" -- came up from behind and stood a few feet in front of me, pointing the gun. "Relax, don't try anything," he said. "We just want your cash." I was touched; putting my mind at ease was his first priority. I had been initially jarred at having a gun pointed at me and at the realization that I was being mugged and just might get killed. But Bert's professional manner put me at ease. A second guy -- "Ernie" -- began searching me from behind, quickly locating my wallet in my back pocket. "Don't try anything," Bert repeated, while Ernie flipped through my wallet. Of course, my hands were full with the tapes I was carrying and he had a gun, so the chance I was going to "try anything" was pretty remote. I considered offering them some of the tapes, but they didn't look like Dire Straits fans. Ernie finished flipping through my wallet, saying to his partner, "No money in it." Then he gave the wallet back to me. I'm not making this up. I was truly astounded. What I'd always dreaded about being robbed, besides the chance of being shot or stabbed, was the aggravation of having to replace my driver's license, PennCard, and seven credit cards -- not to mention losing irreplaceables such as old photographs and my priceless AT&T; calling card in the name of "Elmer F. Gantry." These guys could easily have just taken everything and sorted it out later, maybe trying to buy some stuff on my credit cards before I could figure out which 800-numbers to call to cancel each one of them. As it happens, it wouldn't have done them any good, since I was late on all my payments. But they couldn't have known that. I guess they just didn't want to cause me any undue hassle. Still, Bert looked dejected. "Don't you have any cash, man?" he asked. Now I felt bad for them; they were behaving like complete gentlemen in what was obviously an awkward situation, and they weren't even getting any cash for their troubles. "Check my pockets," I told him. With another cautionary "Don't try anything," Bert searched my pockets, finding thirteen dollars and some change. Not a great take, especially around the Penn campus, but it was something. With a grin they left and turned the corner to run down St. Mark's toward Locust. "Have a nice evening!" one of them shouted, and with that, Bert and Ernie were gone. I later read in the paper that they went on to rob four or five others afterwards, all with the same professional, almost pacifistic style. I'd been robbed, but I felt better knowing that my money had been stolen by two of the city's kinder, gentler criminals. I mean, if I made a list of all the ways I'd been robbed in the last year, it would be nearly endless. Landlords and employers, publishers and bookstores, professors and whole departments, the phone company, this city, this state and my home state, and on and on. And don't you feel just a tad robbed knowing that the University is charging you almost $150 a day? We're getting ripped off every second of every day, from your professor's required 75-page booklet that costs $45 to John Sununu's commandeering of billion-dollar aircraft with $20,000 toilets to go to conventions for overbearing trolls. In the face of all that, two kids from West Philly taking thirteen dollars from me seems pretty insignificant. And they were so nice about it. So as the Thanksgiving ritual approaches, I find myself remembering Bert and Ernie with a rather warm feeling. My financial loss was minor, and I can't shake the feeling that I got off easy. From all the stories about campus crime in the paper, you'd think that unless you stay holed up in your dismal little High Rise suite for four years, you'll probably get maimed or raped or killed or worse. Living in this neighborhood, I'm just thankful I haven't been shot yet. That's not cynical, is it? Jay Levin is a senior Political Science major from Akron, Ohio. Not That You Asked has appeared on alternate Tuesdays.

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