Blank-Tim

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08/23/2007

Holding Out For A Hero

When I was 16, I knew that I wanted to be the next Batman or at least something similar like the Windy Heights Avenger fighting the Fegleys at night in my neighborhood.

My mother's grey 85 minivan wasn't like driving around in the bat car, but hey, you have to start somewhere, right?

Reflecting on that teenage memory now makes me smile at my naive ideas teenage in fighting crime. It was only later in life when I faced my first real criminals-pickpockets that I realized how different things were between comics and real life.

In Santiago, Chile, a lanky scarecrow of a guy yanked my cell phone out of my front shirt pocket as I was crossing the street. I was so angry that I would have to buy another one that I started chasing him down the middle of a busy boulevard screaming my head off in English. He ducked and dodged, but I stayed with him.

Finally, when I started screaming in Spanish, "Ladron, Ladron, Policie!" (Thief, Thief, Police) He set the phone down on the side walk and ran away. As a passerby handed it to me, I smiled.

I had triumphed over evil.

I had discovered my new superhero identity- the Shouter. Or even better, I am Rage. Hhmmm. Rage, I liked that.

Now, living in Prague, I have been pick pocketed twice. The first time, I was 26 and too stupid to know what was going on. I was getting on the underground at Andel; they surrounded me bumping and prodding so I didn't know my pockets were being checked. Luckily, I only lost a beat up walkman.

But now, I know differently. Czech pick pockets are infamous. They are right up there with Absinthe, prostitution and taxi drivers.

I am spending the summer in Prague, my first full tourist season. Usually they attack between Mustek and Narodni Trida on the metro. A group of five. All very well dressed in nice new clothes. I almost mistook them for Greeks lads, but as I looked at them closely, I realized they were too tan.

They crowded around a middle age Korean man as he lugged his suitcase onto the metro.

Seething, I was standing against the wall, Do something. Stop them

One pickpocket blocked me with a muscular arm like--Don't even think about it, my friend.

After they had finished, I watched the Korean as he checked his own pockets. He didn't act frustrated standing there. I was relieved, they didn't get anything.

The next time, two days later, same guys, same tactics, three elderly tourists. I was angry. What does a hero do? He stands up to people. How do I stop them? Do I reach in and pull them free? Do I give a Morpheus-like shout and then attack?

I am alone taking on 6 guys. No one looks like they'd help me. So I just stand there.

After the bumping attack, I warned them (a little too late) that they're English and one old woman had lost a wallet.

Now, July 9th, I am returning from Uvaly, arriving at Masarkovo train station. I am tired and not really thinking as I leave the station. I should have been more careful. Train stations are hot beds for crime. The Ukranian mob supposedly controls all the taxis at the Main train station.

Outside, I hop on tram 24 to Wenscelaus square. I get off and as I am walking along, I feel my left pocket. Nothing but keys. Panic creeps up my spine and I quickly kneel and go through my bag: wallet, discman, papers, contact fluid, diary, and no phone.

Shit! They stole it. Probably it was the tram. I quickly skim my memory replaying it for likely suspects ---those elderly ticket inspectors didn’t really check my pass. I am so angry but I just accept it. I email students, friends and family and tell them the news.

My phone is gone.

That night, Reena arrives home around 10.

"Did your dad get in touch with you?"

"No, why?"

"He said some lady called him and she has your phone."

"Wild, huh?"

The next day I waited for three hours to be contacted. Nothing, maybe she used all my credit calling the States. Suddenly, an epiphany strikes me. Why don't I call my own phone? I dial the number.

"Ano" a voice answers.

"Hello, who are you? Where can I meet you to get my phone?"

"Nemluvim anglisky"

"Pardon me, maly moment. Gabby, please come here. Translate for me. Find out where she is and when we can meet to get back my phone."

Gabby negotiates and gives her my description. Tall, American, glasses, goatee, and a green bag.

I am to meet an older woman, Mrs. Veronika Colorosova, in front of the Fornetti stand tomorrow at 9:45 am at Masarkovo Nadrazi.

I talk with my colleagues, Zdena and Gabby, and we decide I should give the woman chocolate and liquor as she would probably turn down money.

Wed morning: I am so nervous to meet her. I leave my 8:00 class without getting paid. I arrive at 8:36 at the Fornetti pastry stand. I have my green bag and glasses and didn't shave off my goatee. Okay, she should have no problems. Standing there I repeat several Czech phrases. Diky moc pro tvoje pomoc. jesm stastny. Najite moj mobilni. Dekujeme. Mam darek protebe. (Thank you for your help. I'm grateful. You found my phone. WE thank you. I have a gift for you.)

After several false sightings (a really old woman, a married lady and a hungry one) a short slightly graying woman approaches me in a business suit.

"Pan Burdick"

"Ano. Pani Colorosova?"

"Ano" she hands me a note and my phone. I start to thank her. "Diky moc---" but she turns to leave. "Pockej, mam darek protebe. Diky moc."

She looks embarrassed, "Diky" and scurries away.

I am left holding a note. "I found your phone on the train."

I stick the phone in my bag as I head to the metro. Maybe, the world doesn't need superheroes just more Mrs. Colorosovas.

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