Before Jay-Z officially claimed he was "good on any MLK Boulevard," I made my way home one summer night after an evening of drinking. It's something I was used to doing, even during my undergrad years (though back then it was York Road). I spent a wonderful night of singing karaoke at one of the few gay bars still in Baltimore followed by post-gaming with a virtual-reality headset at my friends' place. Oddly not feeling like sleeping on a couch for once - I paid for my mattress six years ago after all - I left my friends' apartment and started my usual mile trek down MLK back to my home.
The air was crisp that night. It was cool but not chilly, just the right temperature to prevent me breaking a sweat like I'm prone to do. I was feeling myself, not only because I had a great buzz going but because I had on a very - for lack of a better term - hipster outfit on: blue overalls and a short sleeve button-up with a pattern I can only describe as summer-into-fall realness.
I was about halfway through my walk in the shadows of the boulevard bouncing along to my karaoke greatest hits when I felt something cold against the back of my recently buzzed head. Being drunk, I felt at total peace with the world and turned around calmly as if I already knew the predicament I was facing. I soon stared down the barrel of a pistol. A gun? A glock? I just remember it felt cold, so it was definitely real. The man holding it wore a ski mask. "Take out your wallet and throw it on the ground." Without even thinking to run, I did as he said. I was basically broke anyway.
Soon I noticed two other guys with bandannas over their faces appear. One was clearly the lookout while the other kicked my wallet around to open it. He was avoiding any unnecessary fingerprints. I quickly admired the operation these three young black entrepreneurs started for themselves. "You got money on you anywhere else?" the runner asked seeing I only had three singles in my wallet.
"Naw, but my card is in there." I offered up my debit card because I knew I could cancel it but more importantly because I remembered hearing of robbery victims being shot because they were too broke and had nothing of value to offer. Basically, they were killed for wasting the criminals time.
"Naw, you good." The runner left the card and the cash in the wallet and backed up.
The gunman looked me up and down, realizing I was too drunk to lie or to care. "Alright, you good. Pick up your wallet and go." I did as he said, probably replied with some dumb goodbye, and continued my walk home. I was happy they didn't go for my card or phone, most likely because they were easy to trace. I was happy they didn't do as little as pistol whip me. I was happy I was too drunk to be afraid. I appreciated the Robin Hoods. Merry Men? No, that would have sounded too gay to them. Robin Hoods.
To this day, I barely remember the gun in my face. In all honestly, I'm shocked I lasted until 29 to be held at gunpoint. My hometown Newark definitely could have had that privilege. If anything, I was sad the invincible, tipsy negro of York Road had finally been defeated on his new route. Clearly, I refrained from walking home at night for a week or two, but I'm back to my old tricks now. I'm just more observant like I always should have been.
Unfortunately, robbery seems to related to the same death entity of Final Destination fame.
Three weeks ago, I received a message from my house's group text. My roommate "Don" woke up from his nap and walked out into the hallway to find a hooded man dart out of "Chet's" bedroom. I left work early to help Don and to access the situation.
Chet beat me home and was already helping Don but obviously he was anxious and scared. I waited until Don stepped upstairs to laugh to Chet, "Ha! We got robbed." Making light of it was all I could do. Make comedy out of pain; that's what my culture does best. I looked around. The guy stole all three of the game systems we had downstairs, the controllers, the games, my laptop, Don's meds, and Magnum condoms I left on the game room table from work. I walked in the kitchen and noticed the box of Magnum condoms from my room on the stove. He must have left them behind when he got caught. I ran up to my room to see he went through my desk, but the condoms were the only thing he found of value. Likely for Chet, the robber was spooked away by Don before he could take the Xbox in his room.
When I returned downstairs, there was a knock on the door. I went to open it and then froze. I realized it was the police. I realized they had already been inside the house. I realized I was black. My heart dropped. After a beat, I unlocked the door and let the (thank the lord) friendly, mid-20s officer assigned to our case in. Don reiterated that the robber came in through the back window in the kitchen, most likely seeing our back gate was barely locked from the bike lock we were provided by the landlord. The officer asked if Don got a good look at the man, but he only remembered his black hood and possibly black gloves.
It still hits me in waves that we were actually robbed. Again, I'm surprised it took this long to be robbed. Other friends in our neighborhood had this happen to them, and it was no pleasure for them either. I suppose now we're all a part of the same club.
Since the robbery, we've upped our security by... deadbolting the front door when we leave and making sure the back kitchen window is always locked. Lightning rarely strikes twice, but at worst they would steal my TV and Chet's remaining Xbox.
I don't miss anything that's gone until I jokingly whine about wanting to play a game that's gone or realizing I can't freely type something up like I've neglected to do earlier in the year. Honestly, the only thing of value we lost in the robbery was Don's sense of safety at home. Hopefully he can regain it soon, but I know it's a process. The investigation's obviously still in progress, but I'm not expecting to see any of my stolen devices again. I sincerely hope I never see the stolen Magnums again.
So, why did I wait so long to write this post? Well, shit happens everyday. It makes us stronger. Also I'm still pretending like I'm not shaken by these events. Maybe I'm truly not; perhaps I just feel like I should be. Is guilt of not being traumatized a thing?
Do I hate Baltimore after this happened to me? No, not at all. The acts of a few men do not define the acts of the many. However, if this happens a third time, I may have to reevaluate some things.
Is black on black crime a thing? I mean, yeah, white people rob white people all the time, too. I don’t know why I thought just cause I’m black I wouldn't get robbed by the locals just cause there are plenty of whites to jack. I can get this work, too, and clearly I have.
Finally, what's the moral of the story? Purchase renter's insurance or whatever. Like most insurance, it seems useless and like an unnecessary expense until you actually need it. Guess I'll skip robbery coverage and just pay extra for natural disaster damages.
Word.
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