Most of my life was spent in the suburbs of Philadelphia, where my parents and half their parents made their homes. My current job took me into the actual city limits five days a week and, as of May 2008, on a full-time basis. Thanks to my constant exposure to the “City of Brotherly Love,” I have done things that are unique to visitors and (most) area residents alike.
I’ve visited the Liberty Bell. I found it much less impressive than the Liberty Bell building’s restroom, seeing as how said restroom served a function here in the 21st century.
I’ve eaten a cheesesteak. In doing so, I again visited the Liberty Bell’s restroom.
I’ve run up the steps of the city’s art museum, a la “Rocky” (if by “run” you mean “climbed at a normal pace while douchebag tourists and bored frat guys ran a la ‘Rocky’ on either side of me”).
I’ve done it all. In fact, the only real “Philadelphian” experience I have yet to encounter was robbery of my person.
Until recently.
Being robbed is just as commonplace to Philadelphia as rooting for the Eagles professional football team or weighing in excess of 450 pounds. I tended to avoid robbery thanks to my tendency to go out in public looking exactly like a broke college student. True, this same image repelled girls as well, but I suppose that is a small price to pay for the lack of having a gun barrel jabbed into the back of my neck and an uneducated voice belonging to a member of the 70% of the city’s populace forever looking UP at the poverty line demanding money and/or “smokes.” It looked like my impending move to New York City (which is set to take place sometime in the next 4000 months) was going to occur with all of my valuables still safe in my possession.
Or so I thought.
A few months back, the local news took a break from its up-to-the-nanosecond coverage of Charlie Sheen to run a story that was (surprise!) designed to alarm members of the viewing public. The story detailed a string of “grab and run” style thefts of cell phones from unsuspecting public transit riders. Grainy, pixelated security camera footage saw device after device yanked from the hands of people aboard trains, buses, or even on platforms. Ever the vigilant protector of the ridership it systematically robs of money and reliability, SEPTA, the city’s public transit system, issued the following statement:
“We urge people to keep their cell phones in their pockets.”
The, they raised fares.
Fun fact: SEPTA’s police force is the state of Pennsylvania’s SECOND LARGEST police force, behind only that of Philadelphia itself.
Seriously, the above response was all they had to offer. No increased police presence. No hiring of more alert station crew (the majority of whom would fail to notice an H-bomb exploding nearby, as doing so would interrupt the precious, $25-per-hour nap they went on strike for a few years back). The responsibility falls to the victims, the taxpaying (and SEPTA fare-paying) public in the corner of Pennsylvania that contains the state’s TWO largest police forces.
Recently, I am ashamed to say, I became one of those victims.
One rainy weekday, I was aboard one of the system’s (two) subway lines. As the train decelerated to pull into the next stop, I foolishly decided that it was safe. My history aboard SEPTA’s various vessels was wholly uneventful, crime-wise, up to that point and I assumed this trip would be no different. Besides, the stop we were pulling into was my destination. I opened my bag, took it out, and patiently waited for the doors to open.
The doors opened.
Suddenly, a nearby passenger snatched it from me and sprinted out of the train, running as fast as his criminal legs would carry him. No gun. No threat. No demand of money, even. Just the same grab and run that I had seen played out on local TV just prior to news of Charlie Sheen’s latest Twitter update.
By now, you’re no doubt saying, “Well, you deserved to have your phone stolen.”
To that, I say, “Who said it was my phone?”
I possess a DROID, for Pete’s sake (for you non-”Smartphone” users out there, a Droid is basically an iPhone with dignity). I protect that thing better than I would my own children. It’s probably a good thing that I’ve opted out of procreation, since, if it ever came to my child’s life or my Droid, I’d be waving bye-bye to Mike, Jr. without hesitation. I’m sure a stolen child is traumatic and all, but at least you have your contact list AND background settings safe at the end of the day.
In a city that is basically an oasis of nice areas in a sea of ghettos, you can bet that my Droid is safely hidden at all times (unless I’m bored).
It was my UMBRELLA that was stolen.
My dollar store umbrella was now in the clutches of a really lame thief. Seriously, dude: people out there are scoring cell phones and you yank an UMBRELLA? Your thievery career is obviously in its embryonic stages. What’s next? Someone’s newspaper?
The funny thing is that the day on which this occurred saw not only torrential downpours, but also winds that were strong enough to tip over mountains and maybe even some of the lighter residents of Philadelphia. The two-block walk separating my apartment and the subway entrance enlightened me to the fact that my soon-to-be-stolen umbrella was on its last spokes. In fact, I would bet my Droid (sorry, I mean my child’s life) that a mouse cough would permanently invert it, rendering it about as valuable as a fruitcake or iPhone.
Now, it was someone else’s problem.
The stop at which I departed was linked via a series of underground, rain-repelling tunnels to a dollar store, so I was umbrella-less only for a short period of time.
