Running Down A Robber

The day I was burglarized in broad daylight

I was seated at my desk that fateful day in the basement of our humble abode, engrossed in some revolutionary daydreaming, no doubt, when one of my venerable housemates presented in my doorway and announced that a visitor was waiting for me upstairs.

​No sooner had he gotten the words out than a dark streak flashed past my window and over our fence with the telltale clang of the chain-link.

“I think he just robbed us,” said my mate, with an amused smile.

Allow me to pause the action here in order to provide some background. Our visitor had visited us before. Not just once, but two or three times, each one occasioned by apparent desperation. “My woman will take my baby and leave if I go back empty-handed…” or another time, with his orbital region turgid and oozing blood, “I just got mugged by these guys that I owe some money.” Each time we had given him aid, whether in comestibles, cash, or both.

Photo by Allef Vinicius on Unsplash

So, when I realized we were in the process of being plundered by a recipient of our charity, the first thought that sprang to mind was, of course, my brothers, this should not be. I thus solicited the counsel of my attending fellow. Ascertaining that the visitor likely had my brother’s camera in tow, for my housemate had found him fondling the same, I set off, selecting the back door as my exit in the hope of retrieving our fleeing friend.

Now the man who had chosen to burgle us that day was about 6'2", of African descent, and thug/junkie/gangster in lifestyle and attire. By the time I had him in sight, which was only seconds after he flashed past my window, he had slowed to a fast walk. In my best ninja form, and without the clanging report, I vaulted over our fence and closed the distance between us.

“Hey! What are you doing?” I called to him at 30 feet, still approaching. He spun around and, like a professional actor, feigned desperate, albeit uneasy, contrition at the sight of me.

“Oh, Abram, I’m so sorry, man!”

“Walk with me,” I said. And he did. He handed me the camera and followed me like a prisoner, if you can believe it.

“I’m goin back to jail, ain’t I? You gonna call the cops on me, ain’t you?”

“No man, I’m not gonna call the cops. I just want you to start living right.”

At that, he broke down in blubbering gratitude and, stopping mid-stride, embraced me in a powerful hug. “I love you, Abram! I love you, man!” I think he may have even squeezed out a tear. We had nearly made it back to the house by that point, so I invited him in. He declined.

“Okay,” I said, “quit robbing people.” He said he would, and we parted ways. ​

Once inside, my housemate, who had been watching from the window, said, “I guess he still has the cash, then?”

“What cash?” I said. “You didn’t mention any cash!”

“I’m pretty sure he took some cash from the office.”

Exiting the house to give chase again, I glimpsed our man rounding the corner at full speed a block away. And as my legs began to move beneath me, I was grateful for a life of regular exercise. By the time I had rounded the corner, he was a block and a half ahead of me.

As I ran, I remember thinking, if I can’t catch this joker, working out is an exercise in vanity with no practical benefits. As I closed in on him, I hollered my brilliant greeting again. “Hey!” He halted, exhausted, unnerved. (How often do you escape justice twice in 5 minutes, only to be run down both times?)

“I gotta get that cash from you,” I said, trying to control my breathing.

He feigned ignorance. “Huh?”

​”What’s in your pockets?” I asked. “Empty all of them.”

If you had been driving down the street at that moment, the scene might have struck you as strange: a large black man sheepishly turning his pockets inside out at the behest of a smallish Mexican, the latter carefully keeping a bit of distance between them.

No sooner had he handed me the cash than an ivory Escalade pulled up and stopped in the street.

“Please don’t say nut’in to my auntie, Abram, please!”

The two-time thief, the slithering deceiver, the abuser of charity was begging for mercy. What would I do? Thoughts of a scene from Les Miserables flooded my mind… “With this silver I have ransomed your soul.”

A darkly tinted window rolled down on the passenger side of the Escalade. Two robust women peered out at us from under fake lashes and eyelids heavy with color. “Is you okay?” the driver called to the thief.

Mastering my breath to hide the recent chase, I approached vehicle. “Hi, my name’s Abram,” I said, shaking their hands in turn. “Everything’s fine. I was just saying goodbye.” With that, I turned and walked home.