Hick in the District

Who comes up with this stuff?

I will neither confirm nor deny that I had anything to do with this

File this post under “Things We Don’t Tell Mike’s Parents”

Somehow I always knew I would be mugged my last night in the ghetto. I didn't know it would be considered "assault with a deadly weapon." The law cracks me up.

Friday night was to be the last night I would be staying in my room in Capitol Heights, Maryland, which is not more than 150 feet from the DC/MD border. As I mentioned below I got a room in a house I'm very excited to be living in, inside the District, in a "transitional neighborhood" about 20 blocks north of the National Mall and six major blocks west from the Capitol Building. I bought some things online and had them shipped to my new address, hoping they would arrive after Saturday when I moved in. UPS and FedEx, taking their competition a little too seriously, both delivered their charges days earlier than they should have. I spent a good deal of time Friday afternoon milling about my new place in my work clothes—woven gray jacket, Regis Philbin silver tie and all—waiting for my new digital camera to be delivered. When it did, in its trademark Amazon.com box with the corner upturned smile, I signed for the delivery and got on the subway system to go home and pack what little things I have into my three suitcases.

All Metrorail stations are built in such a way that you are underground as you pay your fair and exit at street level. The Deanwood station is no different, but for the broken elevator and frequently broken escalators. After climbing up the escalators a little past 8 pm with the $500 digital camera under my arm (give me a break, its Canon's newest in their top of the line compact series, the S80 if you're looking for a recommendation), I saw a group of high school sophomores to juniors nearby, less than 10 feet, playing at some game whereby they were divided into two groups opposing one another and one in the middle, ostensibly from one of the teams, facing the other. No big deal. I took out my phone anyway.

After walking four or five paces, say less than 12 feet, I was cold cocked from behind, and the young man from the middle of the group was in front of me. The force spun me around a bit and I saw the rest of the horde advancing at me as if they were a pack of hopping ghetto compys straight from Jurassic Park fame. None of them were bigger than me by any measure, most quite a bit smaller, and I doubt any one of them was significantly stronger than my desk-bound body has become. But as Kim Jung Il will tell you there's something to be said for sheer numbers. I don't remember falling or opening my phone or bundling myself into a turtle, or even beginning to bleed, but I do have a vivid memory of blood pouring across my phone's display as I held down the 9 key in front of my face. Not so much for its Tarentino-esque imagery, it's just that the red blood cells did not advance across the backlight like the plasma did, so the whole display turned to an intensely florescent sallow color. That the various blood parts would react differently to the phone's face captivated me at the time. I didn't have time to formalize the interest into an internal monologue, just felt it and "felt" the scientific explanation of what was happening in front of my not-blood blocked eye. This is one of the reasons I doubt the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis.

Anyway, it was about this time that I realized I hadn’t held the 9 key down at all, that I had instead pressed down 5 twice. Clearing that and making sure to hold down the 9 key, and deftly scooting to dodge kicks as best I could, or absorbing them with shoulders and ribs and deflecting them when possible, I finally got the phone to dial. This is one of those times you just expect things will work because you’ve been told since before you can remember that they will work. It’s like being told God loves you, you hear it all your life and you just take it for granted as a given. So being told at the bottom of a punching beanbag dog pile that “the call cannot be completed as dialed, please hang up and try again” comes across as a non sequitur. It was very disorienting. How can you possibly mis-dial 911, especially when it’s pre-programmed? But at this point I thought, verbally, “This really isn’t that bad” which, as Liz and Valerie will accurately tell you, is my line for whenever things are bad but I’m refusing to acknowledge just how bad they are and prefer to tough it out. But in a way it was true, I still had my phone and my camera and my wallet, I was in an impenetrable ball and other than the gash above my ear that was singling blood everywhere, they had yet to land a significant blow that I was aware of. “They really kind of suck at this.” That didn’t stop me from holding 9 down again.

I think by this time they noticed the phone was open and dialing. One of them put two or three fingers over the display and his thumb on the back side to pull it away from me. Yeah right. The little cannibal could have one of my limbs before I let him have my lifeline (or camera for that matter, seriously, the thing is pretty sweet). I also felt a finger and thumb on either side of my wallet so I rolled over to sit on it, and let me tell you, this baby got back. I wouldn’t be surprised if I broke a finger or two. The blood had lubricated the display and that coupled with my death grip on anything valuable and their waning wonton interest, they gave up and disappeared like demons into Halloween’s dawn. All told I don’t think it lasted more than 20 seconds.

I picked myself up and didn’t bother to dust off. “That’s a man!” a shocked woman babbled out. “I’m only 24, why does everyone have to remind me how old I am?” I let it go, and walked away as fast as I could, still trying to get “911” to work, but being told it could not be completed. Another 30 feet and a woman called to me “Are you alright sir?” I thought “Well my blood pressure isn’t elevated and a tox screen will come back negative so…” and called out to her “Yeah, I’m fine, I’ll be alright.”

In Part II I’ll tell you about my jurisdictional disputes with 411 and dispatchers, and my smartass quips to Metro Police and EMTs. Meanwhile, here are some pictures (I’m telling you, the camera is awesome):

The tie is shot. The shirt isn't.

If they only knew what was in the box...



The battle field. Yes I went back and took pictures the next day. Yes those spots are my blood.

One of the benefits to being unemployed for a long time is how easy your taxes become.

What will make my taxes difficult next year is all the moving I'll have done. California to Maryland to the District...oh I didn't tell you I'm moving out of the hood? As of April 15th I'll be living inside the District of Columbia. Here's a cool google map of the place. Its about 8 blcoks from church and maybe 18 quick blocks to Du Pont Circle (did I mention Reva will be living there this summer?).

I decided to start looking ernestly after being accosted on the street by some neredowell ragamuffins and a car being torched around the corner was the last straw. I didn't get desperate until bounty hunters wrapped on my window at 6 in the morning demanding to see Nathaniel, aka Neil, Moses. Appartently that was his last known address. My landlord is shocked I'm leaving becuase "itsa saach ah goo-d air-eya!" Maybe that's why he doesn't live there anymore...