Being Mugged

I’m listening to Autobiography of a Yogi, written by Paramahansa Yogananda, and read by Sir Ben Kingsley. I’m between Sumach and River Streets, on Gerrard Street, and it’s just past 9pm on a weeknight. I’m on the Regent park side of the street. I’ve walked it many times, but never this late. I had a thought about people rolling others for shoes a few minutes before. I’m not scared or tense. The tales being told on my Ipod are enlightening. They make me feel good about people, and about my potential.

I notice suddenly that a man, probably around my age, black or arab maybe with a scarred face is walking immediately behind me and just to my left side. After maybe 30 seconds, where I think, “oh, another crazy person or retarded person has decided to make friends with me.” I turn my head slightly to him, see his angry and scared eyes, and say “what’s up?” Then he is pushing me as hard as he can toward the buildings. I notice he’s got a friend with him. I think briefly about how awful this could be if he gets me off the street and into a building or alleyway, and I push back. That moment is scary. He tackles me to the ground when I push back, and I land on my knees and hands on the sidewalk, maybe 5 feet in from the street. He’s saying “give me the money” over and over again. I’m saying “okay, dude” and “hold on a second”. My wallet’s in my bag, not in my pocket, so I can’t just hand it over. He’s crouched over me, his friend standing behind me, watching for police, I assume. There’s cars going by every second, I know they can see me. There’s people walking on the sidewalks, distant enough that they won’t help, but close enough that I know they can see what’s going on. I grab my wallet out of my bag and open it. He says “how much you got” and I say, “I’ve only got 15 bucks, dude.” He starts to reach for the wallet and I say “you can have the cash, and there’s like 8 bus tickets here. Take them.” He says “what else you got.” I hand the cash and the bus tickets and say “that’s all, dude. You got some cash and some bus tickets.” He notices my headphones sprawled in front of me on the ground. He says “give me the Ipod”. I think to myself, this was a gift, it’s not really mine when it’s a gift. I say, “no, dude, not the ipod. come on, you’ve already gotten cash and bus tickets.” He says “I will shoot you,” and puts his hand inside his pants. Strangely, I don’t believe him, but remember a conversation I had with a friend before about how it’s not worth finding out whether or not he’s got a gun. He has baggy pants, you can’t tell. He’s saying, “take the ipod out of your pocket” and I say, “okay” and pull it out and put it in his hand. He then says “you’re not stupid, you’re not going to call the cops, right? Don’t make me shoot you.” And I say “I’m not going to do anything, dude. I’m just going to leave.” And he turns around and him and his friend run. I get up, never look back, and walk straight ahead along Gerrard towards home. I notice that my heart-rate hasn’t really gone up, it’s maybe 100. That’s normal for me. I rub my right hand where it scraped the sidewalk as I walk. I don’t want to look back, and I don’t want to reach for my cellphone. When I get over the Don Valley I call my wife.

I never called the police. I wasn’t afraid during it, it didn’t feel like it was really out of control. Neither of them were terribly erratic. They didn’t hit me or even swear. Although at first when I was recounting the story I added the word “motherfucker” to his dialogue, and it took me until the next day to realize he never said it. I had put some words I assumed I’d hear in the story. That’s weird. I didn’t get angry at all for a while. I was depressed, couldn’t concentrate, and really sad. I don’t identify with him, but I’ve always wondered about what life is like in such a rough place. I mean if you live in poverty, how can you develop the morality we expect? But a few days later, I’m fucking angry. It doesn’t matter what his situation is, or what mine is either. Fuck you for taking my sense of security away from me. I walk around in my neighbourhood now, taking note of my impressions, and I get flustered by things that never flustered me before. I always assumed that people mind their own business. We aren’t friends or enemies, we don’t know each other, we go our own way. But someone, anyone, can decide to invade that space. At any time. And that’s wrong. I can tell you that living paycheque-to-paycheque in subsidized housing is not an excuse for traumatizing strangers.

We went to Windsor for the weekend. We were on farms and in quaint little villages. We went to St. Jacobs, the most unreal town I can think of. Everything is idealized. We don’t walk, we drive everywhere, in a metal bubble. I think about raising a family, and how much easier it could be there. But that’s not me. This event cannot and will not change my perceptions that much. Some neighbourhoods are not in a good place. Walking through the poorest area with a nice dress shirt and an Ipod is not smart. That’s what I need to do different. Be smart about the fact that I live in a city. The city hasn’t changed at all. It’s the same. And I have to be mostly the same, but learn from this thing.

And at the same time, I will maintain that nobody has the right to hurt another person, in any context, ever. Next time you think it’s okay to hurt somebody, remember that. You don’t hit people, you don’t steal their bicycles, you don’t break into their houses, you don’t rape them, you don’t threaten them, you don’t kill them. And if you’re on the other side of things, knowing you don’t do those things ever, you might have been one of the people driving by, or walking just a few yards away on the sidewalk.