I’d never been robbed before let alone at gunpoint. But that changed fast once I moved to Harlem from a small suburban town in Pennsylvania. In fact, it happened on my second day in my new apartment.
It all started when my close friend Dave and I decided to pack up and move to New York City. I was a screenwriter and playwright; he was an aspiring actor. Living in New York was the dream and finally, we were doing it. Dave moved into our place on 116th Street and Frederick Douglass Boulevard a month before I could, since I still had loose ends to tie up at my old job.
Now, this was 2005. Harlem wasn’t what it had been in the 70s and 80s. Or even the 90s. But it was still a little sketchy. Heading uptown from Central Park West, the moment you crossed 110th, the scenery changed quickly. Central Park faded behind you, and suddenly you were somewhere else entirely.
After wrapping up my job, I got to New York. Night one was all about relaxing after hauling my life into the apartment. Night two? Celebration. Dave and I found a cool little bar on the Upper West Side and got absolutely drunk. I’m talking wasted.
Naturally, after that, we hit Gray’s Papaya and bought about fifteen hot dogs because drunk logic is undefeated. Still unfamiliar with the subway system, we hopped on the 1 train to 125th and Lenox way farther than we needed to go. We also blew past 116th without noticing. So at about 3:30 in the morning, we were trudging eight blocks back to the apartment. And for some reason, I was leading the way.
I finally reached the building, turned around and Dave was gone.
Now, I suppose I could’ve gone inside the building, but I only had keys to the front entrance, not the apartment itself. And sure, I could’ve called Dave, but my prepaid cell phone was out of minutes. And I didn’t have a single dime on me. Just a bag full of Gray’s Papaya hot dogs. So the only thing I could do was wait.
But 3:30 became 4:00.
4:00 became 4:30.
Then suddenly it was nearly 5 a.m. and still no Dave.
Fed up, I walked a block to find a payphone before remembering yeah, I had no change. I spotted a passerby and politely asked if he had any. Told him my phone had no minutes. Instead of giving me change, this gentleman pulled out a gun and asked for money right in front of five guys hanging out on a nearby stoop.
I tried to explain that I didn’t have any money why else would I be asking him for change? He looked strung out, and I wasn’t about to gamble with my life. So I handed over the phone.
On my way back, I actually saw him trying to sell it to the guys on the stoop.
Frustrated and maybe not thinking clearly I asked another stranger for a cigarette. The sun was starting to come up, people were out, and I figured the danger window had passed. Wrong. This guy stepped out of a bodega with a fresh pack of Newports and a six-pack of Heineken. He seemed sympathetic, gave me a cigarette, and even offered me a beer. And at that point? I thought, Sure, why not?
He cracked one open for himself and told me to join him on the stoop across from my apartment. I sat on the top step next to him, but he shook his head and pointed to the step in front of him where the back of my head would basically be in his crotch.
Yeah. No. I made up some excuse and got the hell out of there, ducking inside the front entrance of my building. I waited fifteen minutes until I didn’t see him anymore, then went back outside and started downing hot dog after hot dog while waiting for Dave.
Finally, a little after 7 a.m., Dave came casually strolling down the street.
“What the hell happened?” I yelled, unloading everything that had happened to me.
“Settle down,” he said. He told me he’d been so drunk and disoriented that he’d gotten lost on the walk home and instinctively went back to the train where he promptly fell asleep and spent almost four hours riding in circles around the city.
He offered me some Jamaican beef patties as a peace offering.
I screamed, “I JUST ATE FIFTEEN HOT DOGS!”
Luckily, nothing like that ever happened again. And I still live in New York City nearly fifteen years later but this wouldn’t be the last wild incident from that time.
My 2nd Night Out in the City, I Got Robbed
It was late January 2006. I’d been in New York City for about six months, living on 116th and Frederick Douglass Boulevard. On my second night in the city, I got robbed at gunpoint right down the street from my apartment, an experience that would’ve sent a lot of people packing. But I stuck it out. After a while, I felt like a hardened criminal myself, minus the actual crime. I made friends in the neighborhood, found a few bars and restaurants where people started to know me, and settled into the rhythm of the place.
On this particular freezing January night, I was warm and comfortable on the couch, watching the Grammys with my roommate, Dave. I’d always been more of an underground hip hop guy, but I remember watching Justin Timberlake absolutely tear it up, playing every instrument imaginable, singing flawlessly while dancing, no lip syncing, nothing. I wasn’t exactly a boy band supporter, but I still blurted out, “Holy hell, this dude is awesome.”
Right around then, my stomach growled. I was starving. Halfway through the show, I checked the fridge and found… butter and mustard. That was it. I could’ve ordered something, sure, but it was already around nine, and I wanted something at least pretending to be healthy. So I bundled up in my big puffy North Face coat and a beanie and headed down to the grocery store on 110th. I grabbed a box of Bran Flakes, a bunch of bananas, and some skim milk, and started making my way back home.
They Slammed My Head Against a Brick Wall
But as I reached 113th Street, just three blocks from my apartment, I got that unmistakable feeling I was being followed. Crossing toward 114th, I spotted two shadows behind me, closing in fast. Before I could do anything, they converged on me. Naturally, my first thought was Great, I’m getting robbed again, so this time I decided to fight back. I swung wildly, blindly, hoping for the best. It didn’t matter. The two guys, who, annoyingly, were dressed almost exactly like me, overpowered me immediately. They slammed my head against a brick wall, pinned my face to it, and zip-tied my wrists together. All of this happened right next to my laundromat, in full view of half my neighbors.
Still thinking I was being mugged, I offered them my wallet. Instead, both men flashed police badges. Perfect. I was being arrested, for what, I had no idea. I mentally rewound my entire week to make sure I hadn’t accidentally racked up any illegal parking tickets. One of the cops was extremely aggressive, practically foaming at the mouth as he yelled, “What's in the bag, tough guy?” “Bran Flakes, bananas, and skim milk,” I answered, sounding like a scolded child. His partner, the much calmer one, checked the bag, then turned to the angry cop and deadpanned, “He’s right. Bran Flakes, bananas, and skim milk.”
Didn’t matter. The mean one kept screaming, absolutely convinced he had his guy. Apparently, a Mexican looking dude dressed a lot like me had just robbed a bodega down the street and fired gunshots. I’m half Filipino, barely speak any Spanish, but I get mistaken for Hispanic constantly. After a few minutes of me talking, explaining where I’d been, what I’d been doing, even recapping the Grammys, the aggressive cop’s confidence started to crack. He refused to admit it, though. He stormed off, barking into his Boost Mobile walkie talkie, leaving me zip tied against the wall with Officer Friendly.
The nicer cop checked my ID and saw my last name, which definitely isn’t Spanish, and we ended up talking. And by “talking,” I mean forty five minutes in the freezing cold while my groceries sat on the ground. Despite the bruises forming on my face, he was surprisingly comforting, asking about my life, my plans, what brought me to New York. It was such a deep conversation I almost forgot it was five degrees outside.
Finally, his partner returned, still yelling: “He’s not the guy!” He sounded genuinely disappointed that I hadn’t shot up a corner bodega. The nicer cop cut me loose, shook my hand, apologized for my face, not the way it looks normally but for what they’d done to it, and wished me luck.
Looking back, especially in today’s climate, I probably should’ve filed a complaint. But this was before social media really mattered, Facebook was still practically a college novelty, so it wasn’t like I could’ve gone viral.
There were a couple of silver linings, though. First, I immediately gained neighborhood street cred; getting slammed into a wall by the NYPD apparently earns you respect. I also looked like a total badass walking around with scrapes and a black eye. Second, when I finally got back home, my skim milk was still ice cold thanks to my involuntary 45 minute refrigeration session on the sidewalk. I even made it back in time to catch the end of the Grammys.
