THE ANATOMY OF A MUGGING

Around 3:17 AM Saturday June 13, 2009

Disclaimer: Gratuitous swearing….

It was a warm summer night in Chicago and I just got off the Blue line ‘El’ train in Wicker Park. I remember walking briskly, side-stepping the tipsy bar patrons as they spilled out into the street. I had to get home and fast. I held my purse to my side and every few minutes I eyed my surroundings. I was alert, walking in the middle of the street where it was well-lit.

Ten minutes later I bent the corner by the Karaoke lounge; the landmark I used to remind myself of where I lived.

“Hey, you know where Western street is,” a clean-cut Hispanic man said walking towards me. I inched away. “Ummm, I don’t really know,” I said pointing towards the open intersection. “But I think it’s that way.”

He retreated to the middle of the street, speaking rapid-fire Spanish on his cell phone. I turned around a few steps from my apartment, he was gone.
I pulled out my keys. I was home. I rested my headphones on my neck, the faint hip-hop music pulsating-- Lupe Fiasco’s “Real.”

‘Now which key did Erica say opens the front door? I jostled my keys and put them in the door.

He struck from behind, not saying a word. The man from the street yanked my purse so violently the strap broke. It was all a blur of raw, intense emotion. I wasn’t letting go. We wrestled for a few seconds, maybe it was a minute. I stumbled to the ground, my palms scraping the asphalt.

“My purse, GIMME back my purse muthafucka,” I screamed.

He ran so fast disappearing into the night.

For a minute, I froze. My heart was leaping out of my chest and my face was burning hot. I felt like I was half-dreaming, in the way you know something bad just happened but you don’t want to acknowledge it.

The only thing I had left were my keys and my headphones dangling on my neck. I got through the first glass door and manage to open the second door to the stairs of my apartment. Then I crumbled. I slammed my fist against my thighs, “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK,” then the tears poured like a river. I somehow make it up the steep stairwell, sobbing and cursing and praying to God.

Lord Please help me, Please help me.

I’m crying uncontrollably, my keys are shaking in my hand and I can’t open the door. I have five keys and three locks. I slumped to the foot of my door.

Get a fuckin’ hold of yourself!

Thirty-minutes later I finally get in. I slam the door shut and double-check the locks. I kick off my platform wedges and run to Querita’s room. I don’t see a lump in her bed. The apartment is clean and empty. No phone, no internet, no connection to the outside world.

No one is here I’m scared I don’t know what to do, so I pray to the only person who can hear me:

Lord help me, help me.

I lock myself in my room. I can’t breathe. I’m scared he might come back to hurt me. I feel like throwing up. I wipe the snot from my face and my tears on my black cardigan.

“I’M OKAY, I’M OKAY,” I tell myself. “He didn’t have a gun, he didn’t rape you.”

I look out the window to the pink sunrise and the stain-glass church. “Please God help me,” I said. “Why is this happening to me?” My mind starts racing and I’m worried about tomorrow. Fuck. I have no money, my stipend, my passport, my train card. I have nothing and I can’t even sleep. I hate Chicago.