COLUMN: Mugged at Gunpoint

From Rob Faunce's "Quoi d'ever's," Fall '95 From Rob Faunce's "Quoi d'ever's," Fall '95My mugging was not unlike many others. Two boys. One gun. My wallet. And watch. And house keys. And (inexplicably), my sunglasses. It happens to one out of every three of us during our stay in bucolic Philadelphia. Freshmen, forget what your tour guides told your mommy: Our campus is not a safe place. After an evening of quality entertainment far far from campus (a.k.a the Ritz V), my lady friend and I decided to saunter back to her home near 43rd and Pine. Instead of waiting for who knows how many minutes for an Escort van, we took off on foot, convinced that no one would mess with a burly man such as myself. After a nightcap, I walked up Pine Street toward campus, contemplating two blocks of West Philly splendor. I wondered aloud, "What exactly does the University do with that glorious home at 4200 Pine?" My perplexed curiosity quickly yielded to a sense of dread, though. At first I thought it was tri–colored tortellini dancing too vigorously on my tummy (thanks to a field trip to Marabella's earlier that night). Instead I discovered two tots on tykes (technically they were scooters, like the ones our younger brothers rode in the early portion of this decade). One decided to park himself in front of me on that sidewalk, and as I prepared myself for those grotty details of the post–partum police grilling ("What did they look like? Where were they headed? What did they say, exactly?" repeated ad nauseam), the little boy decided to move on, casually tossing a "Sorry, homey" my way as he scooted off. What do you do? Is there a blue–light box around? Of course not. Am I close enough to my friend's house to amble back? No. So you keep going. You start practicing your phone conversations to your friends about your near–brush with crime, punctuating it with little anecdotes about how you would beat the tar out of anyone fool enough to mess with you. Then you realize you aren't on that phone yet, and there's a gun wrinkling your shirt. The boys who robbed me were either rank amateurs or incredibly stupid. The dumb–looking one with the gun told me to give him my wallet, while the aerodynamically–sound shaved–head homeboy implored me to put my hands in the air. So I put my wallet in my hand, and my hands in the air. They weren't too pleased. I felt like I was in an "In Living Color" sketch, except I didn't have as much money as Jim Carrey, and Damon Wayans never looked like a cash–hungry 12–year–old with vacant bloodshot eyes. I'd always promised myself that I would pound the life out of anyone who'd try to violate my wallet's space. And as the gun indented my chest, I was plotting some "Rescue 911" style overthrow of my captors. Until I looked into their eyes. These were the eyes of children -- children with powder in their veins. They needed my money not out of some personal vendetta toward me or hatred for my color, but because they needed to save themselves from the clutches of withdrawal. They needed one more fix. This is not to say that I wouldn't nail the sons–of–bitches to the nearest telephone pole if I ran into them with a staple gun one day. But I don't blame them. Nor do I blame the drug dealers, the government, or even the University (whose charming commitment to off–campus security was published in The Summer Pennsylvanian just hours after my mugging). I blame myself. I was the one who was out at 2 am, even if just for a two–block walk. By clinging to the idea that my world was safe, and not acknowledging the dangers of my environment, I made a choice. I chose to put myself in danger. Our world is not safe. And while I may have been victimized, I am no victim. I am not going to start some support group. I am not going to take back the night. I am not going to blame the world for my misfortune. I am going to live through this. This event has forced me to make changes in my life, and I accept that. We are individually responsible and accountable for our own choices. They chose to rob me, and I choose to deal with it and get my credit cards cancelled and re–issued. My misfortune is not going to change the world. Rhetoric can't change guns. So acknowledge it, and move on. I plan to, especially while I ride Escort.