COLUMN: Confessions of a victim

From Jorie Green's, "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96 From Jorie Green's, "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96Crime doesn't pay, but it sureFrom Jorie Green's, "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96Crime doesn't pay, but it suredoes aggravte, unless you canFrom Jorie Green's, "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96Crime doesn't pay, but it suredoes aggravte, unless you cansee it inherent hilarity. From Jorie Green's, "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96Crime doesn't pay, but it suredoes aggravte, unless you cansee it inherent hilarity.I have this intoxicating power over some of my more desperate neighbors. Panting like puppy-dogs, they follow me around in aching pursuit of my body -- or anything else they can get their hands on. Don't believe I'm so hard to resist? Take one look at my face and see if you aren't overcome with a sudden urge to commit a little arson. If you're reading this over lunch at Dining Services, I bet you'll find yourself walking away from the table with a few of those cheap tin forks rattling around inside your backpack, feeling completely justified. Go ahead, take it. You deserve it, big boy. And while you're at it, don't forget the spoons? I'm like a drug, a weapon of the Devil. Some of my prettier friends have driven men to madness, to anguish, even to idiocy. But only I can take them to the jailhouse. In my four years at Penn, I've become unnaturally close with 911 operators. I've bought an assortment of Clubs: the Club in Traditional Red, the Club in Fashion Color Violet, and my most recent purchase, the Door Club. I've learned to anticipate a responding police officer's questions: "It happened at about 2300 hours. It was a brown leather purse. It was an Emerson TV. It was a 1992 maroon Cutlass, Pennsylvania license plate UP 4 GRABS." And I've learned that there's no point in being ashamed of my odd, yet powerful, status in the West Philadelphia community. Shame is about as useful as Mace. So when asked, I just admit it, with a little impish pride: My name is Jorie Green, and I am a professional victim. The typical response to this sort of confession is pity. "Oh, you poor thing, your insurance premium must be so high." But I don't feel sorry for myself, because I've always been aware of my fate. It's genetic. ETS (Easy Target Syndrome) is in my DNA. As a child, my mother was never able to hold on to her milk money. And like me, as an adult, she can't hold on to a car. Don't get me wrong -- I've tried to fight it. When I was a sophomore, a strange man (5' 10", facial hair, no identifying birthmarks) followed me south on 40th Street, grabbed me by the shoulders, and placed his hand where it certainly was not welcome. "I vant do have sex with you, and you vant do have sex with me," he growled in a voice thick with a Middle Eastern accent. "EEEEEEEEEEEK!" I replied. A University Police officer approaching from Uni-Mart saved me from further insult, but I was traumatized for a long time following that violating encounter -- especially because the right rear window of my car had been smashed a week or so prior to this incident, and the left rear window of the same automobile was broken several weeks later in a Center City lot. "Have I inherited the family curse?" I asked a wide-eyed, trembling-lipped reflection of myself in the hallway mirror that night. EEEEEEEEEEEK! Petrified, I did something a little drastic. I made a psychic friend. Lady Tiffani didn't really seem like the sort of person I'd be friends with -- she wore a stained cotton turban over her hair that looked like it might have once doubled for a tablecloth, and she had a map of Ireland tattooed on her upper arm (which I thought was fairly odd, since she told me she was a Gypsy from Romania). But when she told me she could use tarot cards to help reverse my "negative energies," I concluded that a relationship with her might be worthwhile. "I see that you will live a long healthy life until the age of 93, when you will die of old age. I see that if you do what you are best at, you will be very successful. I see," Tiffani took a deep drag of her cigarillo, "I see that?oh, what's this?" "What?" I sat up on my satin cushion. "What do you see?" "What I see is not so good," Tiffani answered, holding up the Three of Piercing Daggers. "I see that there are people who will deceive you. They will take advantage of your strong faith and your good heart. Beware of flim-flam artists and con artists, and make sure you double-lock all your doors." I sighed. "So, it's in the cards that I'm going to get robbed again?" Tiffani perked up. "Not exactly. There is an evil force preventing your total happiness. For only $60 a month, I will say a prayer and light a candle for you. This is the only way to fight the powers that be. Do not let these thugs rip you off." Sixty dollars a month? Was that covered by the General Student Fee? I decided to make a new friend: Maureen Rush, director of Victim Support and Special Services. Rush recognized my rare disorder within seconds; the symptoms of Easy Target Syndrome had risen like a rash over my "aura," and were plainly visible to any trained criminal, psychic or police chief. Rush told me that I "walked like a victim," and made the wise suggestion that I take some self-defense lessons. But instead, fool that I am, I went to Kinko's Copy Center and had some business cards printed up. "Jorie Green. Opportunities in Auto Theft, Theft From Auto, Mugging, Stalking, Pick-pocketing. No job too small." As Tiffani pointed out, if I do that at which I am best, I'm bound for success. And as a senior English major with plans for the future sketchy enough to make any self-respecting career-planning counselor wince, at least this is a start.