I had a bit of an odd experience late last night. Around 11:00 pm, after sitting through the entirely unsatisfying "Gene Simmons Family Jewels" on A&E (a truly blatant, cringe-inducing rip-off of "The Osbournes" if ever were there one…and on A&E no less, despite being neither arty nor especially entertaining) I was saddened to discover that we were out of milk in the `fridge. With the wife and little people due to arrive back from my Mom's place out on the `Island today, the absence of a quickly accessible bottle of milk would be frowned upon by all parties concerned. So, I dutifully put my sneakers back on to go walk around the corner to our local deli on University Place to procure a fresh carton. No big problem. I've done it a million times before.
It was a cool night with the slight whiff of impending rain in the air. I strolled into my deli, bought my half-gallon of milk and strolled back out. As I turned on my corner and started to walk the couple of yards to my building's lobby, two young gents came walking my way. Both somewhere in their early twenties, walking and conversing in a manner suggesting that they'd recently smoked a great deal of crappy, Lower East Side weed. They were both done up in in self-styled "punk" gear (one kid was sporting a Crass t-shirt beneath a massive, unkempt afro). I thought nothing of it. Suddenly, Afro-Crass kid wobbled directly into my trajectory. "Hey man," he started to slur, "you need to …..." Before I'd really taken any stock of the moment, I'd already brushed past him (though no physical contact took place) and was walking into my lobby. Evidently, they followed me in. "You know these guys?" asked Steven, my ever-understated doorman. Now these dudes had entered the lobby, standing just inside the doors, squinting in my direction. Not in the mood for any shenanigans, I told Steven that I didn't have the foggiest idea who they were, stepped into the waiting elevator and was gone.
Five flights up, after putting my milk in the `fridge, I started to dissect the incident, and realized that I had left Steven rather high and dry in a potentially unpleasant situation. I immediately went back downstairs, running the fleeting exchange over in my head. What had just happened? Had I just escaped a botched mugging? What did that kid say to me? Neither of my potential assailants were particularly intimidating, but there was still two of them and one of me. Did I just completely wimp out and leave poor Steven in danger? Was I almost shook down mere steps from my own home?
I arrived back in the lobby to find Steven like the too-cool customer he always is, sitting calmly and un-blood-splattered behind his desk, with no sign of my would-be highwaymen anywhere in sight. "Sorry, Steven," I offered -- feeling like I'd just acted like a huge jackass-coward, "what was that all about?" "I don't know," said Steven, peering up from his glasses, "they gave up and left when they saw you get on the elevator." I walked back outside. 9th Street was quiet and empty, without so much as even a car in sight, let alone any youthful, Crass-espousing brigands. I said goodnight to Steven again and went back upstairs.
I'm still in the dark about it. Maybe the kid had a sincere, legitimate question. Maybe it wasn't a shakedown at all. Maybe they were just messin' with me. Maybe he wanted to know where the nearest ATM was. Or maybe I did just narrowly slip through a confrontation. I can't help but think that on any other block in this city, my guard would've been a bit higher up and I'd have sussed out the situation a bit more. But no one expects something like that to happen right in front of their own home. That said, this is still New York City. Oh well. Maybe next time, fellas
Recent Comments