On the way to work today, I realized that I had left mes lunettes chez moi. As my eyesight is fading like Leonardo DiCaprio's fame, I thought it best to return home and retrieve my tortoise-shells. "Well," I thought, "everything happens for a reason. Maybe I was meant to be late today." So doop-dee-do, I grabbed my specs and had to wait only 30 seconds for the Halsted bus. I took a seat away from other people in the middle of the bus, opened my Blissout catalog, and observed all bus rules like the law-abiding passenger that I am.
At Division, a man whipped his arm over my seat and grabbed my bag. But I had street smarts! Since my left arm was threaded through the handles, he couldn't run off with it. He did, however, manage to snatch my wallet and escape through the back door of the bus. Boy, did that make me mad. I tore after him through the grounds of Cabrini-Green, polluting the commuters' din with various profane assaults. He was a slow runner, and I could have caught up with him had I pushed for it. But then what would I do? In my mind, I'd whip his head with a swift kick (like Buffy!). In reality, I'd probably try to shove him, miss, and slide on the asphalt.
Wallet-stealer ran into the southernmost building of the project, and I responded by having an asthma attack outside. A few people accosted me, more out of curiosity than anything else, I think. A man with an aged but ageless face seemed mildly amused by the predicament; he smirked as he offered help, but I instead called 911 because I couldn't breathe. Lemme tell you, folks: 911 is not, as Public Enemy would have you believe, a joke. Within minutes, a fire truck, ambulance, and police cruiser had arrived on the scene. They fed me oxygen and kleenex and water, but all the authorities agreed that I'd never see my wallet again.
I wasn't worried about the money, really. This seems frivolous, but I just wanted my little grey Agnès B wallet. It was one of the first "grown-up" purchases I made, and it has a cute elastic strap and coin-holding section inside. "That guy just wants the money, and that's fine! But he doesn't appreciate a wallet made by one of Sassy magazine's favorite designers," I thought. Just as I decided to accept my walletless fate, whaddya know? Officer Friendly waved it in my face. "Found this outside one of the buildings. He musta thrown it out the window," he said. What delight!
Officer Friendly offered to drive me to work (by now, I was really quite late). During the ride down Halsted, he sang that popular song, "Blame the Victim." I was particularly chagrined when he admonished, "Someone like you should know better than to run into Cabrini-Green. You're going into the darkest part of the jungle there." Nice thinly veiled racist comment. I reported that one to internal affairs.
At Division, a man whipped his arm over my seat and grabbed my bag. But I had street smarts! Since my left arm was threaded through the handles, he couldn't run off with it. He did, however, manage to snatch my wallet and escape through the back door of the bus. Boy, did that make me mad. I tore after him through the grounds of Cabrini-Green, polluting the commuters' din with various profane assaults. He was a slow runner, and I could have caught up with him had I pushed for it. But then what would I do? In my mind, I'd whip his head with a swift kick (like Buffy!). In reality, I'd probably try to shove him, miss, and slide on the asphalt.
Wallet-stealer ran into the southernmost building of the project, and I responded by having an asthma attack outside. A few people accosted me, more out of curiosity than anything else, I think. A man with an aged but ageless face seemed mildly amused by the predicament; he smirked as he offered help, but I instead called 911 because I couldn't breathe. Lemme tell you, folks: 911 is not, as Public Enemy would have you believe, a joke. Within minutes, a fire truck, ambulance, and police cruiser had arrived on the scene. They fed me oxygen and kleenex and water, but all the authorities agreed that I'd never see my wallet again.
I wasn't worried about the money, really. This seems frivolous, but I just wanted my little grey Agnès B wallet. It was one of the first "grown-up" purchases I made, and it has a cute elastic strap and coin-holding section inside. "That guy just wants the money, and that's fine! But he doesn't appreciate a wallet made by one of Sassy magazine's favorite designers," I thought. Just as I decided to accept my walletless fate, whaddya know? Officer Friendly waved it in my face. "Found this outside one of the buildings. He musta thrown it out the window," he said. What delight!
Officer Friendly offered to drive me to work (by now, I was really quite late). During the ride down Halsted, he sang that popular song, "Blame the Victim." I was particularly chagrined when he admonished, "Someone like you should know better than to run into Cabrini-Green. You're going into the darkest part of the jungle there." Nice thinly veiled racist comment. I reported that one to internal affairs.
