A Virgin No More

I am, quite possibly, the single most approachable person to ever ride the New York City subway. Just one glance in my direction assures harried tourists that I ought to be their first choice to ask the way to the Staten Island Ferry or the Museum of Natural History. The deaf mute selling the flash cards featuring basics of American Sign Language always navigates his way through a sea of commuters and right into my lap. The children selling peanut M&Ms to support their charity basketball teams never fail to encircle my seat.

I am, in fact, so obviously harmless that I have been shaken awake while crossing back into Manhattan from Brooklyn in the wee morning hours only to be asked for the time, despite the presence of several other riders in my car. A seasoned late-night passenger, I thought that perhaps I had mastered the technique of making myself appear more imposing than I really am by curling up into a fetal position and pulling the hood of my jacket over my head, thereby hiding my lanky frame and boyish face while I slept. Yet beneath the heavy green fabric of my Abercrombie sweatshirt, I must have exuded an aura of accessibility, for, despite my best efforts, I proved unable to shake my innocuous but unwanted interlocutors.

But, while they were a nuisance, I had for the most part emerged unscathed from the Hobbesian wonderland that is the W train crossing the Manhattan Bridge at 4 a.m. Unnerved on a few occasions, yes, but always, in the end, equally unharmed.

My mother, ever the worrier, had not wanted me to go to Times Square for New Year’s Eve 2003, afraid as always that that would be the night terrorists would decide to turn 42nd St. into the latest battleground for jihad. Which of course meant that my then-girlfriend, Allison, and I would not only be headed to watch the ball drop, but we would try to make our way as far forward as possible. Despite arriving at our decision well past 11 p.m., with our Patrolmen’s Benevolence Association cards in hand, we coasted through security checkpoints starting at 63rd St., promising each officer in turn that we were, in fact, meeting Officer Smith at the corner of 45th St. We finally settled in just inside the cordoned-off police section reserved for television cameras providing network coverage. Sure my mom had been worried, but, at that moment, surrounded by 50 of New York’s Finest in uniform and several more in plainclothes, there wasn’t a safer spot in the city.

An hour later, confetti still in our hair, we descended into the Square’s bowels blocks away—several closer stations had been blocked off to control the anticipated crowd of more than one million—passed a cadre of officers in riot gear, and emerged on the platform at the rear of the train.

Almost immediately, the lessons of my childhood bounced about inside my head. I had ridden the subway since I was much too young to remember, and to and from school every day since I was 13. Never ride in the back car, my parents had often warned. Always ride with a conductor or in the front car. Don’t draw attention to yourself. And most of all, be careful.

Now older, wiser—and quite a bit lazier—I tuned out their words of caution and stopped walking, waiting for a train to arrive. Three stops and less than half an hour later, we stood waiting to transfer at DeKalb Avenue in Brooklyn.

In a station I would only later realize was completely devoid of police officers—nearly all of whom were concentrated where we had just been—Allison and I again lowered our guard, flipping through the photos we had just captured on a digital camera in the waning moments of 2002. It was this, we would learn later, that had probably sealed our fate for the evening. Unbeknownst to us, we had been spotted and marked by a quartet of thugs standing probably just a few feet away, though we were oblivious to their presence. The moment of obliviousness faded in an instant when I realized just how careless we had been. I stashed the camera back in my pocket, but our foolishness had already done us in.

We again boarded the train, this time an express, sitting at the end of one of the long benches that stretched from door-to-door. Shortly thereafter, four men slipped between cars and entered ours at the far end, where they remained huddled prior to entering the next station. As we pulled to a stop, one, wearing a baseball cap with interlocking red and black sections, walked the full length of the car and sat down at the opposite end, soon joined by the only one of the four not wearing a similar hat. The other two gazed past us towards their associates. The doors snapped shut, and we headed into the tunnel bridging Pacific and 36th Streets.

The train crawled between the two stops. We hadn’t even passed 9th St. before the gray-capped thug, no more than five years older than I, slid down the length of the bench in our direction. I had lived in New York for 18 years and never been mugged. I’d even cast aside the questions from blockmates about how dangerous the city can be, proudly proclaiming how comfortable I was alone on the subway.

It was impossible not to know what was happening, even before he pursed his lips to mutter his demand. I looked across the aisle at a young couple, the woman mouthing “Get up! Move!” as obviously as she could without drawing attention to herself while her companion scrutinized the Dr. Zizmor’s hair removal ad overhead.

With Allison sandwiched between us, I never saw his gun, and I barely heard the command, but I wasn’t about to forget the parental advice that had banished any notions of heroism from my head. The contents of my wallet and a digital camera later, the train pulled into 36th St. After the four fled, the conductor pulled out of the station, unobservant witnesses and Bad Samaritans in tow.

Thirty minutes later we were in the back of a patrol car, swinging through the neighborhood to see if we’d recognize the thieves. All I’d seen were their hats. Other than that, I only knew that they were black. Not exactly a very useful description in the neighborhood we’d stumbled into.

Three hours into the new year, we called it a night. I thought I knew what the officer would say—my elementary school sat right next to the 13th Precinct and our classrooms had been visited several times by local cops on community service missions—but I asked just for the hell of it. “What are you supposed to do in a situation like this? Just give them what they want?”

Of course that’s what you’re supposed to do. Your life matters more than money. Money is replaceable. Your life isn’t.

Apparently the game is played just slightly differently in Brooklyn.

“Next time this happens, just act real crazy,” he said. “Pretend like you can’t understand what they’re saying, or just shout really loudly. They won’t expect that. Or maybe just act like you don’t speak English. Que? Que? No comprendo ingles!”

Right. I’ll remember that for next time.

Timothy J. McGinn ’06 is a social studies concentrator in Quincy House. He has never fully recovered from the theft of the bicycle Santa Claus gifted him when he was eight years old.