From Victim to Officer
A childhood mugging, a squad car ride, and the first flicker of a future dream
The overpass was a solitary pedestrian bridge — barely wide enough for two people — connecting the manicured side of the city with the rougher neighborhoods, just a five-minute walk from our school. We leaned against the metal railing, watching cars rush beneath us in a blur of colors and movement. This was our secret spot, where we could chain-smoke Lucky Strikes without fear of discovery, discussing life’s intricacies with the mismatched wisdom of a twelve and fourteen-year-old.
My friend, Victor, took a long drag off his cigarette, exhaling a cloud that hung in the autumn air.
“This damned school, man,” he said, flicking ash over the railing. “Those teachers have no idea what they’re doing. And don’t get me started on those other dudes.” He squinted against the smoke.
“One day, I’ll show them what’s what. They think they’re so smart.” I nodded silently, watching his cigarette burn down to the filter.
Despite being a repeater, two grades behind because of his behavior, some of us looked up to Victor. Especially me, with my father always emotionally absent and no replacement in sight. Victor was unusually tall for his age, with a slight hunch that curved his shoulders forward like a question mark. Kids called him “Slippery Vic” because of the shoes his mom made him wear — cheap backless loafers with paper-thin leather soles that betrayed him on slick surfaces. He’d trip, recover with a casual swing of his arms, and glare as if daring anyone to laugh. They usually did, just not to his face.
“I don’t feel like doing anything today,” I said, blowing smoke in a thin, practiced stream. The truth was, I never felt like doing anything. I hated school, with its rigid rules and endless assignments designed to highlight what I couldn’t do rather than what I could. For us, smoking cigarettes at this time of day was the equivalent of a cup of tea with biscuits at a book club — a ritual that made us feel sophisticated even though we were just kids playing at being adults, hiding from a world that expected too much and offered too little.
“Hey, you two faggots,” a voice cut through our cloud of smoke. “Gimme your watches.”
“Eh?” I said, turning to find a stranger standing so close I could smell garlic on his breath. He was older — sixteen or seventeen maybe — with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I smiled back reflexively, my brain struggling to process the threat.
“What?” I asked, still smiling stupidly.
“Gimme your watch, idiot.” When I failed to move, he grabbed my wrist and twisted it, his fingers digging into my skin as he unfastened the clasp himself. Victor stood frozen beside me, a slight grimace of defiance on his face that vanished when the thief locked eyes with him.
“You too, hunchback.” Victor complied, unfastening his watch faster than I attempted, and handed it over without a word. We stood there for a few seconds afterward, staring at each other with identical expressions of shock, the reality of what had just happened still not fully registering.
“Everything is going to be fine,” the thief assured us in an almost gentle tone, as if he were a doctor delivering news of a successful operation.
“You will be fine. Don’t look at me anymore, and don’t follow, got it?” Then he smiled at us again — a flash of yellowed teeth that seemed grotesquely intimate. I smiled back, my face operating on its own program, disconnected from the alarm bells ringing in my head. Was this panic? Another reflex? Perhaps my first brush with Stockholm syndrome? The strangest part was that he wasn’t even armed. No knife, no stick, nothing but confidence and the power of surprise. I watched him saunter away, our watches dangling from his fist, and felt a confusing mixture of relief and humiliation wash over me.
“What time is it?” I asked Victor with deadpan delivery, gesturing to my naked wrist. See, I had this power—or maybe it was a defense mechanism- to make fun of events immediately after they happened, no matter how serious. If a classmate’s pet died, I’d ask if they were having “pup-peroni” pizza at the funeral. My mother called it inappropriate; I called it survival. Victor didn’t laugh. He stared at his bare wrist where his prized Casio had been minutes before, his face a blank canvas of shock.
We decided to walk back home and shake this terrifying experience off with the help of a couple more Lucky Strikes. Victor was outraged, but I was more resigned than anything.
“That sucker,” he said, finally breaking silence. “He’ll see when I call my brother.”
I had met his brother a few times. He was older and a short-tempered hothead, never fun to be around.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” I said. “I mean, what’s he going to do anyway?”
He ignored my question, and we kept walking home in silence.
Near our home was an old car impound lot where police-towed vehicles were taken and held until claimed. A few local officers were always around, and I liked the police. I liked their confident stance, crisp uniforms, and the respect they commanded by being present. Like many kids my age, I had fantasized about being one at some point. Now I had the perfect excuse to approach and talk to them, so I decided it’d be a good idea to head over and ask for help. I told Victor my plan.
“Are you crazy?” he said, stopping in his tracks. “What are they going to do?”
“Certainly more than your brother,” I laughed, though the joke didn’t hide my nervousness.
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth, I managed to wear down his resistance enough that he shrugged and muttered, “Fine. But I’m not talking to them.”
When we reached the entrance and spotted an officer standing there, our tone, body language, and overall attitude took a complete 180. Up until that point, we’d been composed and collected. But once we stood before the officer, we were no longer the same kids.
“Sir, ex… excuse me… um…” I said, almost sobbing, my voice finding a tremor I didn’t know I possessed.
“We were just robbed by a gypsy.” My chin shaking, not entirely an act. “We live just around the corner,” I added.
The officer flicked his cigarette into the air, the ember arcing before disappearing into the gravel.
“Robbed? Right here in our neighborhood?” He straightened his posture, instantly alert.
“I can’t believe those bastards.” His expression changed from concern to fury, and it felt oddly exhilarating, as if suddenly I had found my angry bodyguard, someone who would right the wrong done to us without question.
“Bob!” he shouted through the door. “These two boys were just robbed!”
He made a quick gesture for me to calm down, silently assuring us that we’d be fine. Then he asked us where we were and what had happened. Of course, we lied about the exact spot — and our nicotine habit — and said we were walking across the highway.
“But if you live on this side of the highway, and the school is on this side too, what were you doing over there?” He looked more intrigued than suspicious, but we lied again and said we were on our way to find a friend. He nodded, accepting our story without further questions — the kind of adult trust unimaginable today. See, in the late ’80s, no one raised an eyebrow if ten or twelve-year-old kids were out and about, wandering the city by themselves.
Bob showed up — a big guy with a mustache that seemed to have its own authority, his uniform pressed so perfectly it could’ve cut paper. He carried himself with the confidence of someone in charge, and his face darkened when he heard what happened.
“Are you guys ok?” he asked, kneeling slightly to meet our eyes. We were fine, but we kept up the façade.
“We just don’t know what to do,” I said, my voice small and deliberate. “He took our watches, and he was very aggressive.” I rubbed my wrist where the thief had grabbed me, which wasn’t entirely an act — the skin was still red.
Bob nodded grimly, then straightened up and waved to the first officer.
“We’re taking the patrol car. Let’s drive these boys around and see if we can find this punk.”
And if we find him? I thought my stomach dropped. Suddenly, the whole thing felt like a terrible idea. In my mind, I could already see the thief’s vengeful face, the certainty that he would retaliate and bring his entire family to hunt us down for ratting him out. I’d be forced to live in fear, checking around corners and jumping at shadows. That was the gospel truth we all believed back then: mess with gypsies, and you were screwed for life.
Victor and I sat quietly in the back of the car, fiddling with our fingers on the vinyl seats. We felt like detainees for a moment, which strangely was fun, despite our fears. One more story for our grandchildren, I thought, already mentally embellishing the tale. We couldn’t open the doors or windows ourselves, and a thick sheet of plexiglass divided the front from the back. So we all had to shout to hear each other, our voices bouncing around the cramped space.
“WHERE DID YOU SAY THIS HAPPENED?” Bob asked, trying to look back from the passenger seat. Victor and I glanced at each other and chuckled.
“It was at the overpass by the… You know, that fancy neighborhood with all the big houses,” I said, deliberately vague.
“WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Bob shouted.
“AT THE OVERPASS! BY THE FANCY NEIGHBORHOOD!” I repeated.
“RIGHT! I KNOW EXACTLY WHERE THAT IS!”
We drove around for a long thirty minutes, canvassing the entire neighborhood, but there was no sign of the thief. The patrol car crawled down side streets and circled blocks, the officers scrutinizing every young man who remotely matched our vague description. We all lost hope at some point, but I was beyond relieved. The thought of a possible confrontation — and the awkwardness of it all — made me want to vomit. The two officers, however, were very into it — like this was the most adventurous thing they’d done in weeks. They were reluctant to give up, as if their careers depended on it, pointing out potential suspects and conferring in low voices about tactics and approach angles.
“GUYS, WE CAN FIND HIM. DESCRIBE HIM AGAIN…” Bob would say, and we could detect growing determination in his voice. I glanced at my empty wrist where my watch should’ve been, then at the dashboard clock showing it was nearly dinner time.
“WELL, SIR… UM… I THINK IT’S OK. WE REALLY NEED TO GET HOME TO OUR PARENTS,” I shouted. I couldn’t think of anything better to say to get them to stop trying, but I figured they’d understand. They seemed disappointed, though, as if we had suddenly sucked all the fun out of their day. Victor stayed quiet the entire time, which wasn’t unusual. He only ever played tough around me — in private.
Once I got home, I started reflecting on what had just happened. I was more excited than afraid, and honestly, the highlight of the whole thing was riding in a police car with two guys who seemed to care about us. I replayed the scene in my mind: their immediate concern, determination to help, and disappointment when we gave up the search. I knew they weren’t heroes, but they were certainly braver than we were — and that was a skill I had yet to develop. I wasn’t exactly a coward, but I wasn’t brave either. More reckless than anything, I would say. Unable or maybe just unwilling to foresee the dangers in my actions.
For obvious reasons, I didn’t say a word to my mom. I didn’t want her to worry, or worse, start asking what we were doing at that time of the day. That concern would keep me grounded, and I had plans with Victor in the coming days. My mom would have eventually noticed my missing watch, but I’d already concocted a story about leaving it in gym class. Victor wasn’t that smart, though. He told his parents and his short-fused older brother, which led to them taking another drive around the area to “beat the shit outta that fucker,” as they put it. Luckily for me, the thief was never found. So we moved on with our lives as if nothing ever happened. We just had to find a different spot for our smoking club.
But that experience shaped my professional aspirations for years. For a long time, I thought maybe one day I’d wear one of those uniforms, lean against a squad car with a cigarette, drive around, and occasionally help some scared kid feel the way I felt that day — protected and seen not just by solving their immediate problem, but by taking them seriously in a world where adults rarely do.
And I did. Thirty-six years later, I became that cop — badge polished, uniform pressed, leaning against my squad car. Only to realize that, like everything else in life, it was much harder than it looked from their back seat. But sometimes, when I find a kid in trouble and see that same look in their eyes — that mixture of fear and hope — I remember what it felt like to be on the other side of the badge.
