The bus stop consisted of a little sign in front of a long-closed auto shop. The sign squealed as it swung back and forth; the streetlights were off. In the distance I could see the westbound Joy Road bus coming slowly up the street.
And in the opposite direction, coming down the street, two figures trudged in blackness. I kept my eyes on the bus as it neared; it was a block away. The figures moved more briskly now and passed on either side of me. By the time I figured out what was going on, it was too late; I couldn’t run.
One grabbed my right arm. The other took my left. I tried to pull away, but the one on the left pressed something hard against my side.
“Know what this is?” he said.
I could guess.
They dragged me to the alley behind the closed auto shop. I had to try to find a way out—there had to be a way out.
The bus whizzed by, black smoke kicking up behind it as it sped down the street. The driver didn’t even look my way.
“This all the money you got?” said the one with the beard, who had literally ripped my wallet out from my pants pocket. The gun in his hand resembled a miniature golden replica, like he’d bought it from a toy store on discount. When I looked at him, he knocked my glasses off; the side of my nose started smarting.
Everything went out of focus.
“That’s all I have,” I said. “I’m telling the truth.”
“You better not be lying,” said the other one, who was rummaging through my attaché case.
It was quiet except for the sign creaking in the wind.
The other one ripped the pockets of my khakis out to make sure they were empty. Goosebumps formed a pattern on my legs.
Then a car flashed its high beams at us. Twice. The two men eased off, afraid, for the first time. Thank God, I thought. Someone to help...
The car idled there for almost five minutes, throwing a harsh white light in our direction. The driver, sitting still in his car, was obviously evaluating the situation, figuring out if he was going to help.
The two men looked at each other, then at me, then at the car. He’s going to drive by us, ask what was going on, and they’ll have to leave me alone. They’ll leave me alone.
The driver turned his high beams off, shifted into gear and drove off. Whoever it was didn’t want to get involved.
The two men smiled at each other, their confidence restored.
“When I say run, run, you hear me?”
“And don’t look back,” said the one with the beard.
He yanked my leather coat off.
“Run nigga,” he said. “Run!”
I ran...and waited...for the gunshots…waited for the pain.
“Run!”
I ran, and everything slowed down, except my thoughts – my thoughts accelerated. I closed my eyes.
I tried to anticipate the gunshot; braced myself for it, the base of my spine throbbing in anticipation. The gravel crunched and crunched and my shoes came down hard, stinging my heels.
Up ahead I saw a sign through squinted eyelids, blinking and forming the letters: A & M Liquor Store. My salvation.
I spun round on my heel to see behind me. They had run the other way, seemingly vanished into the blackness that spawned them. I was too terrified to feel relief.
I went into the store with my pants all torn and my shirt, ripped half off my back. Some people actually burst out laughing —I was a sight to see: this 24 year-old light skinned black kid, with pants that looked like Bill Bixby after he’d transformed into the Incredible Hulk.
The Arab guy behind the glass wanted to smile. “What happened?” he asked, concealing his grin.
“I need to use your phone. I was robbed by a couple guys.”
“They did that to your pants too?” he said. “Damn bro.”
“Yeah, they did.” Asshole. “Can I just use your phone?”
I called my mother. She took me back to her house and we called the police. After taking my statement, it was clear the two robbers weren’t going to be found. “Be happy that’s all they got away with,” the policeman said. “It could have been worse.”
No shit.
What is it they say about black men dying before the age of 25? We kill each other everyday for what: a cell phone, some CD’s, a few dollars? I was two months from my 25th birthday and the irony wasn’t lost on me, how narrowly I escaped becoming a statistic.
I refused to go back there to find my glasses, the memory so raw, I couldn’t bear it. My grandfather found them for me.
“How did you find them?” I asked him.
“Shoot, wasn’t nothing, boy,” he said. “I just looked out in the rocks and found it, nothing to it—you didn’t look good enough.”
“I didn’t want to go back there.”
“I know,” he said, “I know you didn’t. It’s over now.”
But it wasn’t over. The next weeks following the robbery, I was a nervous wreck. I walked home in fear. They had my driver’s license and bankcard; they could’ve found me easily enough. A few times I could have sworn I saw one of them, but it was just my imagination working overtime.
You try to forget these things ever happen I suppose, but it never really works. These days when I’m deeply stressed, the base of my spine pounds, like it did that night. I don’t think so much about it these days, but every now and then I remember the night I closed my eyes and ran.