Packin'
A co-worker and friend of mine takes the bus home from here. Yesterday, she was crossing the street across from the library -- 4:30 in the afternoon, Walnut Grove, a busy street.
She stands at the bus stop, as usual, and sees a seven-year-old kid run cross the street and pass her, then a fourteen-year-old. She then feels a firm -- but not rough -- pinch on the back of her shoulders. "Give me your purse." She turns around and looks at him, dumbfounded and un-cooperative. After a second, the fourteen-year-old pulls out a hand-sized gun and points it at her. "Give me your purse."
Cars whizz by, four feet away. She gets scared now. She hands over her purse. She says to him, "I have a baby. I don't to be dyin'. Whatever." His face is calm. He holds the purse for a bit. Her rent money is in there, along with her cell phone, and some stray cash. He looks in and sees it. "At least leave me my damn bus fare."
He looks back at her, hands the purse back to her, and says, "Just give me twenty dollars." He lets her do it. She gives it to him. And he walks away, without panic, slowly, almost like he might whistle.
She turns to get on the bus just a bit later and sees the seven-year-old turned around, watching her, before he ducks behind a building himself, the fourteen-year-old making his way steadily -- just like business -- the opposite way down the street.
She stands at the bus stop, as usual, and sees a seven-year-old kid run cross the street and pass her, then a fourteen-year-old. She then feels a firm -- but not rough -- pinch on the back of her shoulders. "Give me your purse." She turns around and looks at him, dumbfounded and un-cooperative. After a second, the fourteen-year-old pulls out a hand-sized gun and points it at her. "Give me your purse."
Cars whizz by, four feet away. She gets scared now. She hands over her purse. She says to him, "I have a baby. I don't to be dyin'. Whatever." His face is calm. He holds the purse for a bit. Her rent money is in there, along with her cell phone, and some stray cash. He looks in and sees it. "At least leave me my damn bus fare."
He looks back at her, hands the purse back to her, and says, "Just give me twenty dollars." He lets her do it. She gives it to him. And he walks away, without panic, slowly, almost like he might whistle.
She turns to get on the bus just a bit later and sees the seven-year-old turned around, watching her, before he ducks behind a building himself, the fourteen-year-old making his way steadily -- just like business -- the opposite way down the street.