It's Probably Time I Was Mugged
When I left St. Louis, a group of teens threw rocks at me.
They were waiting for the bus, and I was walking by them. Maybe I deserved it. I don’t know.
None of the rocks hit me. And I was too tired to be hurt by their laughs.
Plus, a group of kids had chased me through the ghetto the first night I was in town. A few zits with bad aim were nothing.
Later that night I got drunk at a birthday party for a bookstore. I’d met the owners the day I arrived and they invited me back for the celebration. I wrote them a thank you postcard months later but never sent it. They had given me extra drink tickets and were extra welcoming.
I walked out of the party miles from my bus. No cell phone. 1am.
All I remember is staring down at the sidewalk while I walked and walked. Then at some point, more than an hour later, I looked up and was standing directly under the Greyhound sign. It looked like a sign from heaven.
At other points, I’ve slept behind bushes, in woods, on roofs, next to unused buildings, other unsightly places.
I’ve been scared, but always ended up ok.
And now I’ve been mugged.
Walking home the half mile to our house from a friend’s little party, my wife and I were walking past three kids with hoodies pulled tight around their faces. We thought they’d move out of our way at the last second. Instead, they pulled a gun.
My wife stood with a Coach bag on her arm saying, “Could you not do this right now?”
And they left her alone after that.
They pointed the gun at me and I gave them my wallet.
It had even less cash than when I lived out of a backpack.