THE TIME I WAS ALMOST MUGGED

My grandfather (Dad’s side) passed away in the summer of 2010.  His wake was held in Union City, New Jersey,  an area that is not known for its sprawling vistas and blazing orchards.  I was wearing my best suit, a mismatched set that I pieced together at T.J. Maxx and a pair of combat boots.  I needed the boots because they covered the fact that my pants were about 8 inches too short.  I did however shine them so they looked dressy enough. 

It sucked.  I mean wakes are never fun.  (Unless you’re locking your little brother in the basement bathroom of a funeral home by barricading him in with a potted plant and he screams “VERY FUNNY ASSHOLES,” sending it echoing through the vents for all parties to hear).  Otherwise, they’re sad and frankly, they can’t end soon enough.  I like to grieve on my own time.  Rooms, ripe with emotion generally make me uncomfortable.   I’ve never understood how wakes are perceived as cathartic.  I always feel like people watch you at these events and judge you based on how many tears leave your eye sockets.  I know from members of my outside family that this is true.  They’ve called after a wake and ask if you’re alright because you weren’t crying much (obviously the numbers of tears are tantamount to your inner, personal struggles).  For someone who is paranoid this is like a nightmare sequence, a dead body and all eyes on you.

I had been asked to be a pallbearer at my Grandfather’s (Mom’s side) funeral several years before this one.  It’s a sign of honor and respect, or so I was told.  For me, it was a Hellish ride.  My mother and aunts jumped this on my brothers and myself days before the actual service.  It sent me into an anxiety induced frenzy.  The day of the funeral I was so jumpy that no amount of prescription Xanax could take me down.  I was sure if I took enough to put a small elephant to sleep I wouldn’t be so nervous.  It ultimately didn’t work in my favor.  I lost all color in my face and other various parts of my body.  My balls were so frightened that they rose up and took shelter in the pit of my stomach. 

The funeral director explained that it was a short walk from the funeral parlor to the hearse.  This was no reassurance.  So, I white knuckled it on the corner of the casket.  My palms were sweating oceans.  I was so afraid I would do something stupid, like I don’t know, drop the casket.  However, as we walked out I had to keep telling myself to stop waving with my free hand.  I wasn’t at a fucking parade.  I wasn’t the fucking Queen.  This wasn’t an event that involved waving at people.  Everyone was huddled with their black shawls and hats with black veils (this took place in the late 1800’s).  No one else carrying the casket noticed as I’m sure they all had worries of their own.

So, at Funeral 2010, my friend, Mary, met me at the funeral home in hopes to keep me calm.  She had taken the light rail from Hoboken to Union City.  Her presence worked like a charm.  I managed to get through both showings of the wake without having an episode.  After the last showing at 9 pm I walked her through the streets of Union City to make sure she got back to the light rail alright.  On my way back, I was distracted by a display set up by a lovely Spanish woman.  Shoes of all shapes and sizes were on sale for 2 for $9.  It was quite a bargain and one I wasn’t used to living in Bergen County.

As I perused the selection she told me a wonderful story in Spanish.  I listened, albeit my Spanish a little rusty, but I think it had something to do with trying to make money for a clown with a head injury who was currently eating a cheeseburger in the library.  I didn’t particularly care for clowns and figured I would look trashy if I showed up with shopping bags. 

So I did not purchase the lime green Crocs and plastic white rain boots and headed back.  As I turned the corner of 45^th street towards the Morgado Funeral home a man grabbed my suit jacket from behind.  He put his head close to the back of mine and whispered, “Just give me what I want and you won’t get hurt.”  He was Spanish so all I heard was, “Joss gee mee wha I wan and ewe won get hurr.”  Ok, so it sounded like he was wearing Crest White Strips instead of speaking with Spanish accent.  I was scared and everything was so cloudy.

I decided to give him what he wanted and I slowly faced him and started to get down on my knees.  Unmistakably he thought I was a freak and told me he was mugging (moggin) me.  I wasn’t sure if he had a weapon, but I have a fear of being pistol whipped one day so I figured I would comply with Speedy’s demands.  “I want your wallet and phone (Eyes wan yo walleet an fun),” he barked. 

“Ok here’s the thing, no lie, I just had my identity stolen (a true story) so I don’t have a wallet.  I have a rubber band with my license and a picture of Xena Warrior Princess.  See (showing him) it’s my ‘Warriors Skills Card’ and that’s me, it’s a bad picture.  You are welcome to the $12 dollars and 3 Werther’s Originals in my front pocket.  As for my phone it’s an Env2 being held together by duct tape.”  He then broke out into uproarious laughter grabbed the $12 and ran away. 

I was kind of sad.  I couldn’t even get mugged properly.  I just stood there for a moment with my pant leg tucked into the shaft of my boot, white hiking socks scrunched up, visible for all to see.  It started to rain and I walked the rest of the way back to the funeral home.  Everyone assumed I was just sad to see Mary leave.  I never told anyone what had happened that evening.  It was a mixture of embarrassment and fear of getting in trouble for sort of getting robbed, so I kept my mouth shut to everyone.  I bet my attacker bought the last lime green crocs and white rain boots in size 10.5 too.