I don’t
know if cripples are more susceptible to street crime or not. All I know is
I’ve been a victim of a street crime twice. And the second instance was far
more traumatizing than the first.
The first might technically be categorized as a zoo crime by those who
keep crime statistics. I was at the zoo with my late wife, Anna. We were
checking out the Birds of Prey exhibit. I felt someone bump hard against my
wheelchair and then a loud voice said, “EXCUUUUUUUUUUSE ME!”
At the time I had a leather tool bag hanging on the side of my chair,
the kind people who work with tools hang on their belts. It was a good
receptacle for the things I carried around, like pens and writing pads and a
comb and gum and stuff like that.
On this day I got careless and tossed a five-dollar bill in there and
there it was as plain as day. A male hand reached in and snatched it. Why he
felt obliged to politely and loudly excuse himself before stealing from me I
don’t know.
The guy took off running. Being that it was only five bucks, I should
have just let it go. But when these things happen, you don’t think straight.
You feel so insulted and violated.
So I screamed, “STOP HIM! HE TOOK MY MONEY!! And it just so happened
there were two nearby guys who must’ve been professional linebackers because
they were big and they were fast. They ran after the perpetrator and were
closing in fast when he threw down my money, held up his hands to show they
were empty, and ran off. One of the linebackers picked up the five, looked at
it and then looked at me with a combination of bewilderment, irritation and
pity. All that for a lousy five bucks? The way I was screaming like a little
girl with her ponytail caught in the car door, you’d think that guy had
snatched the Hope Diamond from my tool bag.
The linebacker returned my recovered funds. The end.
The second street crime occurred in the French Quarter of New Orleans.
It unfolded in much the same way, except this was more like an assault.
Our hotel doorman warned Anna to hold on tight to her purse since
Bourbon Street is infested with pickpockets and snatchers. So Anna stuffed her purse up under
her legs and literally sat on it in her wheelchair.
We rolled down Bourbon Street. A man ran toward us through the crowd. We
knew we were his target. It all happened so fast, yet it seemed to happen in
slow motion. The man reached toward Anna and we were horrified when we saw what
he had in his hand! It was a five-dollar bill! He dropped it in Anna’s lap and
took off running.
This heinous crime occurs every day somewhere, but it only happens to
cripples so nobody keeps statistics on it. You’re sitting minding your own business when
somebody suddenly drops a buck or two in your lap or some change in your coffee
cup. They strike without warning. And before you can say, “Hey, I’m not a beggar,
dammit!” they’re gone. And the pain of your victimization is accentuated by
the fact that it’s always such a pissy little amount of money. Like scoring some spare change is supposed to make your day! I’m not
saying I’m so pure that I don’t have a price. Maybe if someone dropped three or
four grand in my lap, I wouldn’t bitch. I’d swallow my pride for the greater
good. But the problem is, no one has ever remotely put me to the test. It’s
always a pissy little insulting amount. I’m
hoping someone someday will present me with a real moral challenge.
Being that it was only five bucks, I should have just let it go that
night on Bourbon Street. But when these things happen, you don’t think
straight. You feel so insulted and violated.
So I screamed “STOP HIM! HE GAVE US MONEY!!” But there were no
linebackers this time. The perpetrator disappeared into the crowd.
I still haven’t recovered. I know that sicko is probably still out there
somewhere, lurking, biding his time, waiting to similarly assault another unsuspecting
cripple.
