You’ll recall that last week I feared being mugged by somebody whose odd characteristics were a result not of criminal intent but profound retardation. That incident may have put a devil-may-care spring into my step, or at least into my drunken stumbling. The other night after catching Kason Gabbard’s three hitter at Fenway, I took advantage of the quick game to spend some more time having fun. I called my buddy Clark Johnsen, yes, the Clark Johnsen, and told him to meet me at the Behan. It’s hard to get Clark out to the bar, I think because he has about a seven year supply of beer at his house.* But, for whatever reason, he fell into the spontaneity of the trip and next thing I know he’s telling me to call him when I get off the train at Jackson Square. Which I did. And no sooner had I flipped closed my phone when I was beseeched from the shadows of the Heath Street Projects. “Hey, Whitey.” I almost laughed. Whitey. I can see “White Boy” or “Cracker” or something, but “Whitey?” Anyhow, this kid, must have been fifteen tops, was bugging Whitey for thirty cents. “Hey, Whitey! I said, hey Whitey! Get back here, Whitey!” Two weeks ago it was twleve dollars, today it’s thirty cents. This would make for a fascinating chart on page B16 of the Wall Street Journal. Anyhow, I keep walking when I get the much dreaded “Give me thirty cents or I’ll kill you.”
Some points to consider:
1. This was on Centre Street right near the Stop and Shop. The train had just let out and there were people everywhere.
2. He was about twenty yards away from me when he started with the death threats.
3. Didn’t see him too closely, but from what I did see, he probably wasn’t carrying anything more lethal than a spoon.
4. Immediately after this whole exchange ended with my bemusedly remarking that he was quite free to kill me if he wanted to, he bumped into somebody he knew. His demeanor changed as though wired to a light switch. There were smiles, hey howya’ beens.
Can you imagined if I had reported this incident to my friend the New Jack City soundtrack listening cop? Come to think of it, I should have. That guy is an unwitting treasure trove of hilarity, and I just leave him sitting in those barracks all alone, another of the vast untapped cultural resources in this wonderful city. One has to wonder, if I had gone running to him, and feigned being shaken, would he have been able to hold back, or would he have called me a sissy.
I am tempted to visit him and act out such a situation, maybe put it on youtube.
cop calls mugging victim “sissy” 1:44
*Not a joke.