Walk-up Robbery

Walk-up Robbery

Typical Baltimore "perp" demonstrating proper walk-up robbery technique

A buddy of mine from down DC way read something in the Washington Post the other day about a brazen walk-up daytime robbery at an outdoor DC café.  He seemed a bit stunned by it all – especially the “at gunpoint” part – and thought enough of our friendship to advise/warn me to “get ready” because this type of thing will probably be coming to Baltimore soon.

Bitch, please.

Baltimore invented the brazen walk-up robbery.  Regardless of the fact that we have no outdoor cafés (brazen walk-ups being the principal reason for that dearth), in Charm City anybody can simply walk into an establishment, be it a bar, restaurant, bus station or perhaps even your home via the marble steps of your squalid rowhouse, and relieve you of your belongings without so much as laying a finger on their gun. They merely lift the front of their T-shirt a few inches, exposing their "chrome" and the deed is done quite simply, with an almost routine elegance about it.

And take note: "belongings" are not necessarily just money.  Could be anything – your watch, your shoes, your coat, your underwear (true story for another time) – any damn thing you have on you.

I can remember a time back in winter of ‘84, I was taking a lovely young lady out to dinner in Baltimore City.  She was looking fine, clad in her stylish, mid-80s rabbit fur jacket and above-the-knee black skirt with matching fuck-me pumps (yes they were also black and above the knee, so not exactly "pumps" I suppose).  I, being the style-conscious fashion plate that I was and still am, was nattily attired in my green, satin-finished USAF flight jacket, faded blue jeans and white Converse high-tops. We were out on the town.

It was a cold winter's night in the city, about 5:30pm and already very dark.  I didn't have any cash to tip the homeless so we had to stop at an ATM along the way.  In Baltimore this is known as "being a fucking idiot." This was somewhere over on the west side, another mistake.  My girl is standing there shivering with cold and, unbeknownst to me, also a little fear because at the time she was witnessing something that I wasn't.

As the money comes out of the ATM slot I hear what she is seeing.  And then, from behind, a man's voice, speaking lowly:

"I'll take that."

I turn slowly, yet coolly, to face the "perp" as we like to call them in B-more. (Actually we prefer using several other terms we have at our disposal, but for this story "perp", regardless of its inadequacy, will suffice.)

I continue to put the money into my wallet, then the wallet into my back pocket…

Now, I will mention again that this was in the mid-80s, back when I was in my late-20s and was still – in my mind – an invincible bad-ass.  I just stood there staring at the guy.  The gentleman robber took exception to this and gave me a look of stunned disbelief.  He was being "dissed", you see; a fairly common term back then, but one that is listed as "archaic" in today's Urban Dictionary, lest you felt the need to look it up.

                                 

Anyway, he stares at me and reiterates.

"I said I'll take that."

I spread my arms a little and say, "So take it."

No gun was shown. It was implied using unconvincing hand gestures, menacing glares, and just really poor, unacceptable body language. I wasn't buying it.  Some other words were spoken, but I can't remember them exactly.  Quite a few "muthafuckers" on his part; me saying some stupid shit like, "You said you were gonna take, so take it.  I'm not gonna just GIVE it to you."  I was daring him to take the money.

I do recall hearing whimpering sounds coming from the general direction of the rabbit fur, but not much else.  Finally something spooked the fucker and he ran off.

We continued on to the restaurant – the Owl Bar if I’m not mistaken – but my date had seemingly lost her appetite and apparently any desire for eye contact or conversation with me.  She had quite a few drinks and just kind of stared into her glass while I performed a monologue about the gaudy décor, openly questioned the gender of the bartender, and Christ why are there so many gay men in here?  I tried to lighten the mood with a Caddyshack-esque comment about jockey whip-marks on the steak being eaten at the table next to ours, but it was of no use.  She was inconsolable – nearly catatonic – the sniveling little twat.

So I drank my usual ten to twelve beers and we left without looking at a menu or each other.  Never saw her again.  This was only our second actual “date”, but I had already fucked her a couple of times in the weeks prior, so all ended well.  Actually couldn’t have planned it any better if I tried.