The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Cents: Difference between revisions

There was no one else on the street. I suppose I could’ve crossed the street to avoid them, but I was intent on not giving in to some sort of irrational fear.

As I passed by these kids, one of them reached out and grabbed me. It was the guy in the basketball jersey.

Even at this point, I thought it was some sort of joke—that they were horsing around somehow. But they weren’t. One of them said, “Don’t move, cuz, or I ''shoot'' you!”

 

I didn’t feel fear for some reason. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the sixty-two pennies, and dropped them at his feet. He just stared at me for a second. “That’s all you got?”

“You lyin’ to me, cuz?” The jersey started patting me down, from my chest all the way down to my pants. Now his voice wasn’t quite as low or steady anymore. “ ’Cause if you lyin’ to me, cuz, I’m gonna ''shoot'' you!” At first I was confident that nothing bad would happen because I didn’t have any money on me. Then I realized that something bad might happen ''because'' I didn’t have any money on me.

 

 

 

“What the ''fuck''?” one of the lookouts said. He seemed pissed. I thought for sure they were going to drag me off into the nearby alley and beat the crap out of me—or worse. But then the lookout said, “Is that the one with Bat Boy on the cover?”

It took me a couple of seconds to process what he was saying. “You’re thinking of the ''Weekly World News'',” I said. “''Paranoia Magazine'' doesn’t have Bat Boy in it. I wish it did. ''Paranoia Magazine'' comes out of Providence, Rhode Island where H. P. Lovecraft”

“Shut the ''fuck'' up!” Jersey yelled and gave me a violent shove that almost knocked me to the ground. “Turn around!”

I did as I was told. Jersey pressed the palm of his hand against the middle of my back and pushed me. “Just keep on walkin’, cuz, and don’t look back.”

After a few blocks, I turned a corner and picked up my speed a little bit. That’s when the fear kicked in. My heart started racing. I kept glancing to my right to see if they were circling the block to ambush me. But they weren’t.

The second I returned home I called my friend Wendy. Wendy told me to call the cops. I didn’t bother. What would be the point? I suspected I knew exactly which house on the block these kids lived in.(Think about that. You have to be a real amateur to mug people in your own damn neighborhood.) But the idea of me and a couple of mustachioed cops strolling up to a house full of black people while the Boys in Blue ask me to finger these idiot kids seemed like a potentially fatal idea. “Are these the scumbags, sir?” “Yes, officer, they most definitely are!” “And how much did they steal from you?” “Absolutely nothing!” “Well...we better toss these assholes in jail for a day—just teach ’em a lesson they’ll never forget!” Twenty-four hours later they’re back out on the street, circling the neighborhood over and over again, waiting to see me. That wouldn’t take long.

 

But I couldn’t forget about it. I felt cheated and violated. I was pissed off that I was out sixty-two cents. Most writers can’t afford just to throw money around like that. So the second I woke up in the morning I slipped on my jacket and returned to the exact corner where the teenagers had assaulted me. I wanted my pennies back.

 

I glanced around in some nearby bushes, but couldn’t find even one of them. Eventually, I just gave up and went home. For a long time afterwards, I avoided going out alone after dark.It took me awhile to get over that residual fear—a few months, at least.