by Mike Covers
Most of my life was spent in the suburbs of Philadelphia, where my parents made their homes, lives, and dinners. Several jobs took me into the city during the week and, in May 2008, I finally became an actual city resident. Thanks to my constant exposure to the “City of Brotherly Love,” I have done all of the 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 building’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” Philadelphia experience I had yet to experience was being robbed.
That all changed one rainy afternoon.
Being robbed is just as commonplace to Philadelphia as rooting for the Eagles or having high cholesterol. 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, even actual broke college girls, but I suppose that is a small price to pay. 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.
At the time, the local news took a break from its up-to-the-nanosecond coverage of Taylor Swift 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 its ridership, SEPTA, the city’s public transit agency, issued the following statement:
“We urge people to keep their cell phones in their pockets.”
Then they raised their fares.
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/cate about an H-bomb exploding nearby, as doing so would interrupt their precious, $25-per-hour naps). 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.
And, I am ashamed to say, I became one of those victims. So ashamed that I wrote an entire column about it.
On this rainy weekday, I was aboard one of the system’s two subway lines. As the train decelerated to pull into the next stop where I would be getting off, I foolishly decided that it was safe. My history aboard SEPTA’s various vessels was wholly uneventful–crime-wise, anyway–up to that point and I assumed this trip would be no different. 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 the news in between Taylor Swift stories.
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 Samsung Galaxy phone, for Pete’s sake. For anyone unaware, Galaxy phones are Android devices, which are basically iPhones but 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 phone, 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 don’t have to back up your contact list all over again.
In a city that is basically an oasis of nice areas in a sea of poverty, you can bet that my Galaxy 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 stage. 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 the city. Earlier, 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 legs anyway. I would bet my Galaxy (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.
Even better, my sudden umbrella-free existence was short-lived. The subway stop where I departed was linked via a series of underground, rain-proof tunnels to a dollar store.
