Did I just get mugged?
Unfortunately, my first mugging story didn’t turn out to be as cool as I had hoped. Even still, I feel unsure how to categorize this experience.
It was a bright sunny day like any other, and I was on the walk back home from work on the busy road from Riobamba to Guano. Not far from the university, I notice a tall skinny man in a leather jacket notice me, turn around and stand in my path 20 feet ahead of me with one hand concealed in his jacket pocket. It is obvious to me this individual intends to have an exchange with me, at the very least a few words. However, for whatever reason, I cannot seem to categorize this situation as a threat in my catalogue of possible outcomes. Maybe it is the big, glazed eyes that seem to be unable to follow my movements, the haphazard way he stands on the curb, or the fear I read in his eyes. I quickly judge that I can outrun, out-shove, and outthink this person, allowing for a reasonable margin of error. I half expect him to hand me a pamphlet.
I trust my instincts on this one and continue ahead. No one would be stupid enough to try to mug someone in front of so many people, especially considering the possibility I might kick him in the balls. In retrospect, I think I underestimated this person’s stupidity. And although my instincts were correct in calling his bluff, I am not sure whether I should have trusted them, knowing that their mistake could mean my death by stabbing. Still, my instincts refused to let my heart rate elevate, saying, “Look at this guy. He’s not going to stab you. Growing moss could outrun him.”
I give him a little dodge to walk past him, moving too slowly for a reasonable assessment of the gravity of the situation. He asks me if I brought him ten cents, surprising me by using the formal form of Spanish, which does not fit my conception of standard mugger etiquette. It reminds me vaguely of the manner of speaking used by the mass-murderer Wild Bill in the movie, Silence of the Lambs. “It rubs the lotion on its skin. And then it brings me ten cents.” This interests me, and rather than making a break for it, I turn to him—with the clear impression that somebody who actually had a weapon would demand more than ten cents from a gringo—saying cleverly, “What?”
He surprises me again by grabbing my arm with a pathetic grip, saying nothing—he only looks sadly in my eyes. I reach into my pocket for a few coins I could throw at him if he threatens me, staring coldly back in his eyes without an intimation of fear. I repeat “What?” a couple more times, slowly edging away from him. At the beckoning of my instinct, I break his grip and start off away from him, distancing myself comfortably before he starts after me, immediately stopping himself with the conviction it isn’t worth it. His instinct is probably telling him to wait for someone who is more willing to part with ten cents rather than call the bluff of a desperate individual who might have a knife in his pocket. Anything could happen with a crazy gringo like that.
He never said anything more, nor did he remove his hand from his jacket pocket. My intellect had a few words with my survival instinct afterward, saying “as far as we know, that guy is back there kicking himself for not stabbing you. He was nuts. Anything could have happened with a strung-up whacko like that. You really need to work on your ‘fight or flight’ concept.” My instinct responded with, “What the heck are you complaining about? I just saved you ten cents, at least!” This was a difficult conflict to resolve, and if I remember correctly, my motivating forces eventually came to a consensus. “Okay, for next time, we’ll just kick him in the balls.”
Tags: Travel
Aaron Baldassare