Thursday, October 27, 1994
Tonight I became a statistic. And that's no small matter, because I'm a trained statistician. It's like an auto mechanic becoming a windshield wiper.
I was robbed. The perp was a male Caucasian (more about that later). He was wearing a baseball jersey-type shirt, white with blue pinstripes. Six feet tall. Black, sort of greasy, short curly hair. Dark complexion, but not necessarily Hispanic. He could have been Greek, or Italian. He had a pocket comb.
On Thursday nights I teach until 10:00 at the University of Southern California. I live in Hollywood, where I figure that my chances of getting robbed are only slightly smaller than at U.S.C.
I have an assigned parking space in my small apartment complex. It faces the back wall. Tonight, when I got home, I parked the car and started to gather things to get out. As soon as I opened the door I realized that there was this guy standing between my car and the car next to mine.
It was the perp.
He leaned into my car, into my face. I couldn't smell his breath--one less piece of identifying information for the L.A.P.D.--but I got a good look at him. First he asked me for my money, which was all tucked away in my wallet, which was all tucked away in my left hip pocket, which was all tucked away under my ass on the car seat.
My car keys were in my right hand, and with my left hand I struggled to get my wallet out of the pocket. In the mean time, the perp thrust his hand into the car, against my neck. One part of my mind processed information from my eyes. It said: "He's got a black pocket comb pressed against your neck."
Another part of my mind processed information from my ears, which heard the perp say: "I'll shoot you!"
He spoke with great urgency.
This, of course, only made my left hand as useful as a lump of cabbage. It simply could not coax my wallet out of the pocket.
Then he insisted that I put the car keys back into the ignition. This bothered me.
You see, I drive a convertible Mustang that I bought from my sister. She had put 160,000 miles on it, and loved it. I loved it enough to want to put that many miles on it myself. All I needed was the opportunity, and this perp was threatening to steal it. But my eyes had not yet convinced my brain as to the facts of the situation, so I put the keys into the ignition. The perp reached over and started the car.
This caused the stereo to come to life, and we were treated to the music of Boston's first album.
"Turn off the damn radio," the perp snapped. I attempted this with my right hand while my left hand continued to search for the wallet.
While I struggled with that, the perp prodded my pockets with his other hand. His right hand held the threatening comb firmly to my neck. His left hand poked my shirt and my pants' side pockets.
Finally the wallet burst free, and I triumphantly produced it. He asked me how much I had, and I answered truthfully. "More than $20!" I said. I wanted my perp to think that I was worth his effort.
He asked me to fish the cash out for him, and I did. This I was glad to do, since I didn't want him to notice my credit card. It was bad enough that he wanted the car.
I gave him the cash, and he tried to count it with only his left hand. He didn't want to remove the comb from its place against my jugular vein.
"How much is here?" he asked.
I felt offended. I'd already told him how much to expect. Did he think that I was holding out on him?
"There's a twenty, and there should be some fives and a few ones," I said.
He sounded disappointed, and I started to get mad. There's no pleasing some people.
He grabbed my wallet and tried to look through it single-handedly. But he looked in the billfold part, not in the obvious credit card part. Novice, I thought. He threw the wallet at me and told me to get out of the car.
"Get out of the car," he said.
He backed away and I gathered my wallet out of my lap. The engine was running, and it looked to me as if I was about to witness grand theft of my own auto at comb-point.
I stood in the space between the cars, with the door to my car open. I faced the rear of my car, and my perp was in front of me, the comb firmly stuck to my neck. He didn't tremble or display any fear, let alone irony. Suddenly, as if he'd remembered something he'd learned in school, he reached up and yanked my glasses off. Oh great, I thought, now he'll smash my glasses. To my relief, he placed them on the roof of the neighboring car. Fairly gently, all things considered.
For the first time since the whole thing started, I could look around. It occurred to me then that one of the things I'd worried about while I was being pawed in the car was that this perp had friends. But now I could see that we were alone, my perp and I, on MY turf. I began to calm a bit, and I realized that I wasn't trembling much now.
"Get out of the way, or I'll shoot you," he said.
"Is that a comb?" I finally asked, calmly.
"What?"
"Is that a comb?!?" I repeated, more pointedly.
"No, man," he hissed. "This is a .22, and I'll kill you."
"A .22 comb?" I scoffed.
He looked a little startled. "Do you wanna get shot?" he asked.
"Are you gonna shoot me with your comb?" I inquired.
He backed away. For the first time he looked uncertain. Now that I was standing up, he could see that I was a little taller than him, and about his build (slender and weak). If I pressed it, he might not win a wrestling match.
"Look," I said. "You can have the $20, but I'm not going to give you my car for a comb."
He looked stunned. I stood still in the doorway of the Mustang. He retreated toward the trunk, and ran to the passenger door. He tried to open it, but it was locked. Then he returned to confront me. Once again we were face to face.
"Get out of the way," he insisted. He wasn't shouting, and neither was I.
I had braced my left hand inside the car, gripping the convertible roof levers. My right hand was at my side. To move me, he'd really have to fight. I'd tossed the wallet on the back seat.
"Give me your wallet," he said.
"You already saw my wallet," I said, losing patience.
He backed away again. By now the whole situation had broken down. It was technically still a robbery, because he had my cash. On the other hand I had told him that he could keep the cash, so maybe that's not even true. But he was still willing to threaten me if I'd only believe in the firepower of his comb, and quite willing to take my car if I left it.
He backed away again, and once again went around to the passenger side of the car. That door was still locked, and he seemed surprised by this. Then he ran to the back wall, which is about eight feet high, and vaulted it.
"Don't you tell no one," he said as he leapt over. He was gone.
I immediately got back into the car, where the engine was still running, and pulled out of my lot. I was shaken, and puzzled, and mostly eager to get the car away from him.
I drove around the block a couple of times, and after about 20 minutes returned to my home and parked the car in my space. No sign of him. I went in and called the cops.
Since this wasn't an emergency any more (and may, in fact, never have been), I didn't call 911. I called the regular number, and got a recording for a few minutes. As I waited for the operator, I looked out the window from time to time to make sure that the perp wasn't lurking around my car. No sign of him.
After a while the operator came on. She asked me what happened.
Now, my driving around right after the incident was not aimless. At first, I'd headed for the police precinct just a few blocks away. But when I got there, it looked closed. Then it occurred to me to drive to the Thrifty drug store.
I'd been there after work, late, before. That was when I was dropping off a roll of film to be developed. Right next to the photo developing there was a display of "The Club," the big red steel stick you clamp to your steering wheel to make yourself feel better. That sounded like just the thing I needed.
So I'd driven there. My dashboard clock read 10:57, and they had just closed the doors for the night. They looked suspiciously at me, and that amused me. No dice. I got back in the car without The Club.
But the whole time that I was driving around, I'd been rehearsing this story. What would I tell the cops? Could I describe my perp?
The question of his ethnic background puzzled me. He was not of African-American descent. He didn't look particularly Hispanic, but he could have been. Mediterranean, I thought. Because he could be Italian, Greek, Turkish, or Israeli, as far as I could tell.
He did have a very slight accent, but I couldn't place it. It was as if he was Irish, and he'd tried to learn a Chinese accent and failed horribly. But how could the cops be expected to fit all of that on a form?
Anyway, I got home and called them, and the operator finally came on. Now I'm not a frequent crime victim, but I was under no illusions about the reception I'd get for my robbery complaint. I didn't imagine a brace of squad cars screaming in my direction from all corners of Hollywood, lights spinning and sirens wailing.
"One Adam Twelve, One Adam Twelve. All available units. See the professor at ten sixteen North Hudson. Robbery. Respond code six."
The operator seemed inexperienced. She asked all the right questions, but in a seemingly random order.
Was I in danger?
What happened?
Could I describe the perpetrator?
What is my name?
Was he Hispanic?
What is my address?
Was he armed?
Would I like to make a complaint?
What was he wearing?
Did he have facial hair?
What was my phone number?
Am I hurt?
How much did I lose?
Were his pants darker than his shirt?
How tall was he?
How much did he weigh?
I got dizzy answering the questions in this order. I'd driven around for twenty minutes thinking about all of these questions, but not in this order. I just wanted to tell the damn story. In fact, since I knew that it was unlikely that the cops could be of any practical use to me now, the primary reason for calling them was so that someone would listen to me. It was too late to call most of the people to whom I most wanted to speak.
Not that my friends and family wouldn't be willing to listen to me after such an experience, even those in other time zones. But to me, the bottom line was that the guy only had a comb. So the danger to me, while I had overestimated it at first for good and proper reasons, had never been that great.
What would they conclude if, after a twenty minute story, told after midnight, they realized that there was no real emergency? I hadn't really been brave; I had in fact lost $30 to a weirdo with a comb. I hadn't even called them right away; I'd driven around for a while, even going to Thrifty first. No, on the whole I preferred to talk to the people I pay taxes to talk to at times like this.
So I patiently answered the questions as best I could. But the ethnicity questions stumped me. The operator seemed puzzled by my inability to classify the perp. She offered several options, but none of them seemed right. I was worried about stigmatizing the Hispanics, the blacks, the Chinese, with my perp. He was not their responsibility.
After taking my information, the operator told me to expect a squad car.
I hung up the phone and drifted over to the window for the hundredth time since I'd come inside. The car sat there, barely visible to me, in the shadows. I could only see the tail lights and a bit of the roof. But it looked safe and sound, for the hundredth time.
I didn't know how to kill the time before the cops arrived. I wanted a drink, but I thought that if the cops arrived and I was drinking they'd wonder if I was too drunk to give a good statement. I certainly wanted to be too drunk to give a good statement.
I went into the kitchen and noticed a stack of dirty dishes. That would take some time, and help to make a good impression on the cops I'd ordered. I did the dishes.
When I was finished I went back to the living room. It looked cop-ready.
I realized that I was trembling and that my heart was racing. It had been twenty minutes since I'd last checked on the car. I looked; it was fine.
Damn it, I thought. It's well past midnight now, and I want a drink. I mixed a tall whiskey and soda, and carried it into the living room. I set it down on the coaster and I sat on the sofa. I looked at the untasted drink. Then I noticed the latest issue of The Atlantic Monthly on the coffee table beside my drink. Maybe if I'm reading The Atlantic Monthly when the cops arrive, I thought, they'll know that I couldn't be too drunk . . .
So I picked up the magazine and paged through it. Cover story about sex education. Book review of Elvis's biography. I settled down and sipped my drink. I relaxed.
A noise on the stairs outside! It was soft enough to be super-suspicious. Who was creeping around out there? Could it be the perp? But how would he know which apartment was mine? Had he watched me come back? But why would he wait until now to strike? Had he replaced the comb with something more threatening?
I crept toward the front door, ears tingling. There was another sound, a sort of scraping along the wall. Then a knock, but the sound came from near the knob, as if a midget were knocking. Or, I thought, someone who was a few stairs down and had reached up to knock.
"Who is it?" I quavered. Gathering myself, I spoke more firmly. "Who is it?" I repeated.
"Police."
I undid the various bolts and chains that I'd used that night for the first time, and opened the door. My cop was a young guy, very clean black hair. Maybe five feet seven, maybe taller. He was crouched on the third stair from the top, so that his face was at about the level of my doorknob.
"Do you always leave your keys in the door?" he asked.
I stared stupidly at the doorknob. I had left my keys on the outside of the door when I came in ninety minutes ago.
"No," I said, truthfully.
The cop was suspicious, of course. He crept up the stairs. I backed into my apartment and waved to invite him in. He stayed out and peered into the place.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. I realized that he wasn't sure about that, and that if I appeared too eager to convince him he'd get even more suspicious. This would just have to be played out. He looked down the stairs at his partner and motioned. There were more footsteps on the stairs.
Officer Mrakich, the first cop, entered the apartment cautiously. It was no longer my apartment; it was the apartment. I felt that I was seeing my place for the first time. Cheaply furnished. Full of shadows. Crowded. Mrakich seemed to relax a little.
His partner, Officer Sanders, appeared in the doorway. Red hair, taller than Mrakich. Pretty. She came in.
Mrakich was checking out the kitchen. I was checking out Sanders.
Finally we all found comfortable spots to stand in the living room. My full glass was beading with condensation on the table beneath the reading lamp. I was unreasonably conscious of it. I'd seen enough cop shows to know the futility of offering them a drink, and I knew the impression I'd leave if I insisted on drinking alone. Besides, I was about to tell them that I'd summoned them to report the loss of $30 to a man who threatened me with a comb.
As I began my story, when I first mentioned the appearance of the perp, Mrakich asked me to describe him. I did the best I could, but we once again ran into the ethnicity question.
"He certainly wasn't black," I said.
"Was he Hispanic?" Mrakich asked.
"I can't say for sure," I said. I looked helplessly at Sanders and told her about the Mediterranean thing. She nodded reassuringly. She understood! I was relieved.
Mrakich took my statement. I had rehearsed it so thoroughly that he had to slow me down. When I told them about stepping out of the car and refusing to play along anymore with my perp, their eyes widened.
"You said 'no'?" Mrakich asked.
"Well, I asked him if all he had was a comb," I said.
"What were you going to do if he had more?" Sanders asked, skeptically.
I was tempted to tell her that I would have been forced to use the deadly martial arts that I'd vowed to practice only artistically ever since that horrible incident in the Persian Gulf, but I just stared at her stupidly.
When I'd told the whole story, even Mrakich seemed impressed with my behavior. Amused too, but a little impressed. Sanders laughed, and said it reminded her of a legendary L.A.P.D. story. A few years ago, during the last years of the "Use a Gun, Go to Prison" publicity campaign, a thief entered a bar called The Short Stop, down by Dodger Stadium.
He had a hand thrust in his coat pocket, and he shouted for all the customers to stay put. He announced his intention to rob the bar. Seconds later he literally flew out the door, propelled by the dozens of bullets with which the clientele of the bar--heavily weighted with off-duty cops--had supplied him. It turned out that all he had in his pocket was a big comb.
I remembered the story. "Use a comb, go to hell," I laughed. She looked surprised at my knowledge of the incident. I knew I was impressing Sanders. Heh heh heh.
Mrakich was filling out the complaint form as I ogled his partner. He looked up and asked me what my occupation is.
"I'm a teacher," I said.
"Where?" asked Mrakich.
"USC," I said.
"Oh," said Sanders, "you're a professor. At USC they don't call them just 'teachers.'"
I tried to look modest. "No," I said. "I guess not."
Mrakich had finished filling out the form, and he offered it to me for my signature. It all looked correct. As I signed it he told me that they'd submit the form to the detectives in Robbery, and they'd contact me if they needed any further information.
My mind's eye pictured enormous stacks of forms like mine, piled high in some poor detective's office. Would my form catch the detective's eye, and prompt him to jump out of his chair, determined to put an end to the scourge of the Comb Bandit?
Unlikely, I knew. All there was on the form was the amount taken and my occupation, address, etc. The detective would shrug. So Professor Loges lost $30 to a guy in his parking lot.
I wouldn't wait anxiously for the detective's call. Mrakich and Sanders were getting set to leave, and I told them that I appreciated their stopping by.
"I wouldn't have bothered calling," I said. "But I think that I pissed off that guy, and I'm half worried that he'll come back tonight."
"You may be right," said Mrakich. "But you just stay inside. If you hear or see anything, call us. Don't assume--even if you know it's the same guy--that he still only has a comb."
Sage advice. I nodded, and held the door as they trundled down the stairs, leather squeaking.
I wondered if the word was out on the street now, spread by my frustrated perp. If you pull a comb on Dr. Loges, you'd better be prepared to use it.
The next day I bought The Club. I feel a little better, knowing it's on the job. But every so often I glance out the window to check on the car. Still there . . .