About a month ago I was celebrating my birthday in New York with some friends. It was 2 a.m., and I had drank too much. One friend and I left the group in search of another bar we thought was close by. Three laps around the West Village and 45 minutes later, we realized we were lost.
When two homeless men introduced themselves on a dark, deserted street, they seemed harmless. They were friendly?I might even say charming?and surprisingly well dressed from what I can remember. We talked for some time before they got around to asking for money. I (literally) threw a couple of bucks at them?the last I had. My friend opened his wallet to show them his last 20, explaining, “No, sorry, see, this is all I have. I need it to get home and …” The money was gone.
We tried to laugh it off, asking politely for the money back, at which point one of the bums challenged my friend and me to a howling match against his friend. Yes, a howling match. It seemed fair. So we did what any rational drunks would do. We howled. As loud as we could. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever howled before, but there I was on a deserted street in downtown Manhattan, howling. Unfortunately, the bum’s friend won the match (the other bum was the judge) and was promptly awarded the money.
At this point, and I don’t think before, I began to suspect something of our new friend. And as they took off down the road, we followed them, I’m sure yelling something as convincing and effective as: “Hey buddy! You took my money! That match was unfair!” We chased them for two blocks but were finally intimidated when they met up with about five other guys. We ran. They retreated in the shadows to divvy up the big score.
We made it to the main intersection of Christopher and Bleaker, where our story goes from absurd to obscene. For feeling betrayed and lamenting our first actual mugging, as we were then calling it, we decided to take action. Approximately 15 seconds after the 911 call, four New York Police Department cars came screaming to our rescue, lights spinning and sirens crying. We spent the next half-hour riding around in the back of a cop car looking for the “muggers.”
And at some moment during this fruitless tour of South Manhattan, I rose up out of the haze of my inebriation and achieved a few lucid thoughts. Maybe it was while the cop explained that I could have been killed. That he sees crack junkies stab kids for less than $20 every week. No matter. In the glowing Manhattan night, I realized the absolute absurdity of the situation. Shocked, scared and awe-struck, I laughed. We asked to be let out, and we took a train back to Long Island to sleep at our friend’s house.
I feel compelled to tell this story not to serve as a warning, although you should beware. Nor to elicit admiration for the NYPD, although much praise is due there.
No, I’m telling this story for a purely selfish reason. You see, in a couple months, I’ll be on my own. My life will no longer fit securely between Wisconsin Avenue and the Georgetown campus. I may even be moving to New York. And if I ever thought I was an adult, I have certainly proved otherwise. I need your prayers.
For four years, I have been haplessly enjoying a trip through the American college experience. Now I feel myself creeping toward the end of a carefree era, and I am a bit unnerved. Soon to be gone are the reckless youthful nights that we have hopefully gotten out of our systems. We will lose the network of close friends that double as housemates and chaperones. But most importantly, we will miss the comfort of irresponsibility?the ability to be clumsy, irreverent assholes every once in a while and still land on our feet.
Brad O’Brien is a senior in the College. He has no plan, and he’s trying not to freak out about it.
