Robbed

When moving to Mexico City they say it is not a question of if you will be robbed, but when.  It's a sort of initiation, much like a candle-light bris or first sexual encounter.  The best you can hope for is that it will be over quickly and that nobody ends up traumatized or seriously injured.  For me, like earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, I knew that the possibility was there, but figured I would be out of the city fast enough to beat any of the odds that might await me.  That said, on a cool September night, the odds won and this boy became a Chilango.

On the night in question, a friend and I were walking home through the back streets of La Roma.  We had just suffered through a rather unsavory dinner and were silently pondering whether going hungry wasn't the better option.  Not far from my house, a man called out to us, “Just want to get your attention, don't want to be surprising you!”  He approached us from the other side of the road and explained that he wanted to announce his presence so we wouldn't be scared and mistake him for a thief.  The man wore clean, tailored clothes, consisting of a button-up shirt tucked into baggy slacks.  He may have even looked respectable were the outfit not two or three sizes too large.  Upon arriving to our side of the road, he informed us that it was a robbery, but would like to do so in the nicest way possible.  He lifted the extra fabric of his large shirt to bring our attention toward an amorphous bulge tucked into his belt.  “I have a gun, and I am robbing you.”  He did indeed have something concealed in there, but it was just as likely to be a box of macaroni and cheese as the pistol that he claimed it to be.  Nevertheless, he was the one with the bulge and who were we to question it.

Despite our roles, he was quite adamant that we should understand his motivation:  He had come into hard times some years back and taken to robbing the rich and giving to the poor. Somewhere along the way he was picked up by crooked police and thrown into prison.  During his fifteen year sentence he fathered one child, now twelve.  He went on to explain something involving debts, deadlines, and the kidnap of said child.  Having been set free only hours earlier,  he was now on the street for one final crime, to save his son.  We stood there for a long time, patiently listening as he wove himself into a story cut from the very fabric of Mexican history and folklore, part lecture, part sermon, all bullshit.  The story went on and on, to such an extent that we eventually had to ask him if we were still being robbed.  He assured us that it was still the case, but, reading our tension, tried to relax us by asking how we were enjoying our time in the country.  As we pulled out our wallets, we briefed him on our favorite places and adventures.  He was impressed by our Spanish, saying as much, and was now practically grinning with pride in hearing why we had chosen to study in his country.
-Mexicans are just so friendly.
-Oh yes, we're are very welcoming.
-And the food is amazing.
-Best in the world.  Nodding with approval.
-We've never had a bad experience.
-I should hope not.
-Actually, this robbery is making us very uncomfortable.  You know, we love this country and don't want to have bad feelings about such a great place.
-It is a great place... I don't want you to have a bad time.
-Well, look, my girlfriend is sick and I promised her I would buy her dinner on my way home.  You don't want her to go without dinner do you?
-Oh no, no, you buy her dinner.
-Me encanta su país.
-Sí, es lindo.

The three of us stood in the street facing each other, awkwardness filling the space between us, locked in the type of long silence that only the most immensely uncomfortable situations can produce.  As the moment stretched on we began uneasily returning wallets to pockets.
-¿Hasta luego? We ventured.
-Ah... sí.  He said dejectedly.  The man turned on his heel and began walking hurriedly away from us.  Once again confused about our roles, my friend ran after the man and gave him a twenty peso note.  They shook hands and the man was gone.  Only when my friend returned did our circumstances finally set in.  My heart made desperate attempts to escape the captivity of my chest and legs wobbled uneasily.  We forced our nerves down and ran back to the house, taking a round-about way to lose any followers, all the while laughing nervously and re-telling the story to each other.  I never saw the man again, but sometimes  wonder if he ever got his son back.  Maybe it wasn't his first time, but I hope the robbery wasn't such a traumatic experience that he never tried it again.