I just beat up a total stranger.
On the way back from school this evening, I stopped in the Duane Reade a block away from my apartment to check out their selection in discounted Valentine's Day candy. I was waiting in line to pay when I felt a sudden jostle of my backpack. Seeing as my bag is usually about the size of a small child in weight and in size, I'm used to being nudged about by New Yorkers squeezing through tight spaces or rushing to catch a train (though tonight, actually, it was fairly empty by law school standards). However, this didn't feel like a push -- someone was actually pulling on the back of it.
I spin around to see a Hispanic man who couldn't've been taller than five feet snatching my red fold-up umbrella from the mesh sidepocket. I hadn't used it in a while and it was probably broken -- and if not, more or less useless against the high New York winds -- heck, Adam had given it to me as a gift a long time ago, which shows just how much I valued it right now ... but that wasn't the point. That midget had just picked my pocket.
"Hey!" I shouted as he began to walk away, and not fast enough, either, as I managed to grab hold of the handle, and the thing began to expand.
"Give it back," I must've said a few times.
I pulled the umbrella toward me as the guy resisted, until finally I was able to plant my hand on the back of his chartreuse windbreaker.
He played keepaway a bit from me, and I wrestled him into a bear hug behind the square column concealing us from the register. It's a good thing he was half my size, because all the while I'm juggling those Hershey's minis in part of my other hand. I felt like a security guard apprehending a shoplifter. I knew people were watching. Was this really happening?
I shook him. When he still wouldn't let go, I kneed him in the stomach. Not particularly hard, but enough for him to drop the offending object.
I shoved the umbrella into my pocket as he slowly backed away, about to leave the store with a half-gallon of milk and a $20 bill in view. (He may have been holding that the whole time -- I don't know -- I was too focused on reclaiming my property.) That's when the cashier, a tall, skinny black guy with "Christian" printed on his nametag, intervened, cutting the thief off at the door and dispossessing him of whatever he had in his hand.
I returned to the line. ("You were in front of me," said a woman sheepishly, who'd come along in the interim.) I checked the middle compartment of my bag to make sure it was still zipped -- he could've walked off with a lot more than a worthless umbrella.
Christian brought the pint-sized pickpocketer in front of the cash counter and held him by the shoulder, instructing him to apologize to me.
"I'm sorry," he said in a low voice. I think I nodded. He let him go.
There was maybe one person ahead of me in line. Christian motioned for me to approach the counter and asked if I was OK. "There's something seriously wrong with that guy," he said. I agreed. "No, like seriously wrong. He lives upstairs, and he's like messed up in the head or something. He's gone up to people in the store and given them hugs before and stuff like that. Like, did you see him walking out with the milk like that? Seriously, messed up. But I aint never seen him do something like that before." He said it'd been discussed getting some sort of "protection" for him in the store, too.
I was still really shaken by it, and I acknowledged as much. ("I would be, too," said the person in front of me.) I said I'd never done anything like that before.
"It's a good thing he's so small," said Christian, "Like if it were me, then you'd really be scared."
That made me laugh, but my hand was still trembling like mad as I fumbled through my purse for a couple of dollar bills.
"Deep breaths," said Christian. "Wuuu-saaa, wuuu-saaa." (Which must be a thing somewhere, because the only other person I've ever heard say that was my archery coach at Columbia.)
I kept glancing behind me as I walked the final block home, making sure this crazy guy wasn't hanging outside the store with some other crazies, still in utter disbelief at what had transpired. Maybe I should've said or done something more, I don't know. I know I'm studying criminal law this semester; I just didn't expect to actually be part of a potential crime. (And is it weird that, as a law student, my mind naturally drifted to the kinds of torts he could sue me for had my blows left a mark?) Felt a bit like Buffy, without the stake.
That oughta teach him to mess with a STRONG BARNARD WOMAN.
I spin around to see a Hispanic man who couldn't've been taller than five feet snatching my red fold-up umbrella from the mesh sidepocket. I hadn't used it in a while and it was probably broken -- and if not, more or less useless against the high New York winds -- heck, Adam had given it to me as a gift a long time ago, which shows just how much I valued it right now ... but that wasn't the point. That midget had just picked my pocket.
"Hey!" I shouted as he began to walk away, and not fast enough, either, as I managed to grab hold of the handle, and the thing began to expand.
"Give it back," I must've said a few times.
I pulled the umbrella toward me as the guy resisted, until finally I was able to plant my hand on the back of his chartreuse windbreaker.
He played keepaway a bit from me, and I wrestled him into a bear hug behind the square column concealing us from the register. It's a good thing he was half my size, because all the while I'm juggling those Hershey's minis in part of my other hand. I felt like a security guard apprehending a shoplifter. I knew people were watching. Was this really happening?
I shook him. When he still wouldn't let go, I kneed him in the stomach. Not particularly hard, but enough for him to drop the offending object.
I shoved the umbrella into my pocket as he slowly backed away, about to leave the store with a half-gallon of milk and a $20 bill in view. (He may have been holding that the whole time -- I don't know -- I was too focused on reclaiming my property.) That's when the cashier, a tall, skinny black guy with "Christian" printed on his nametag, intervened, cutting the thief off at the door and dispossessing him of whatever he had in his hand.
I returned to the line. ("You were in front of me," said a woman sheepishly, who'd come along in the interim.) I checked the middle compartment of my bag to make sure it was still zipped -- he could've walked off with a lot more than a worthless umbrella.
Christian brought the pint-sized pickpocketer in front of the cash counter and held him by the shoulder, instructing him to apologize to me.
"I'm sorry," he said in a low voice. I think I nodded. He let him go.
There was maybe one person ahead of me in line. Christian motioned for me to approach the counter and asked if I was OK. "There's something seriously wrong with that guy," he said. I agreed. "No, like seriously wrong. He lives upstairs, and he's like messed up in the head or something. He's gone up to people in the store and given them hugs before and stuff like that. Like, did you see him walking out with the milk like that? Seriously, messed up. But I aint never seen him do something like that before." He said it'd been discussed getting some sort of "protection" for him in the store, too.
I was still really shaken by it, and I acknowledged as much. ("I would be, too," said the person in front of me.) I said I'd never done anything like that before.
"It's a good thing he's so small," said Christian, "Like if it were me, then you'd really be scared."
That made me laugh, but my hand was still trembling like mad as I fumbled through my purse for a couple of dollar bills.
"Deep breaths," said Christian. "Wuuu-saaa, wuuu-saaa." (Which must be a thing somewhere, because the only other person I've ever heard say that was my archery coach at Columbia.)
I kept glancing behind me as I walked the final block home, making sure this crazy guy wasn't hanging outside the store with some other crazies, still in utter disbelief at what had transpired. Maybe I should've said or done something more, I don't know. I know I'm studying criminal law this semester; I just didn't expect to actually be part of a potential crime. (And is it weird that, as a law student, my mind naturally drifted to the kinds of torts he could sue me for had my blows left a mark?) Felt a bit like Buffy, without the stake.
That oughta teach him to mess with a STRONG BARNARD WOMAN.