Recently, my comedian friend Suli almost got mugged while on Fairfax Ave in Los Angeles after performing at a comedy club. When he approached his car, two no-goodniks, who had just sprayed graffiti on a storefront, said to him, “What are you looking at?” He said, “This is my car.” They responded, “I don’t give a F about your car.”
Suli said they seemed very angry. I imagine it’s rare to meet a bon vivant mugger. “Thank you for your wallet, sir. Have a blessed day.” Thank God, they let Suli leave unharmed with cash intact.
A day later, I posted on Suli’s Facebook that he might consider not wearing pants when walking alone at night. If a troublemaker sees him pant-less, they might assume he’s broke or nuts.
Living in Los Angeles, getting robbed and/or beaten can happen anytime, anywhere, but it’s at night when we feel more vulnerable. When walking at night, I attempt to turn my eyes into Superman-like X-ray vision. Any car creeping down the block brings suspicion.
Sadly, it makes my wife and me think thrice before accepting a Shabbos invitation on Friday night, unless it’s a few short blocks from home. We do it but don’t love it. I believe in God, but he’s weak at stopping muggings.
At 13, I was held up in a candy store. In junior high school, even though we lived in a good neighborhood, these two demented brothers used to rip off me and my friends for our lunch money practically every day.
I never told my parents about the brothers for fear they would name them, then they would kill me like they promised to do. (I heard years later the brothers both went to jail, and one was eventually shot and killed after he murdered a kid I personally knew.)
It was no use hiding the 75 cents lunch money in a tissue in my shoes or down my pants; they were ready to search. And if they did search and find, I earned a beating besides losing my money. It’s strange how a criminal’s moral compass tells them it’s wrong to be lied to.
I dare say it, many men would be out and about at 4 a.m. hiding cash down their pants, hoping to get mugged if there were young, good-looking women doing the muggings.
When I drag my dog into the backyard for a late-night wee wee, I’m mouse quiet in case some lunatics are on the prowl. I’ve never seen one nut job I thought I could take down.
God forbid someone throws a punch, I duck, and they clock my wife square. She might later say, “How come, when I ask you to do something, you don’t move, but now you’re Muhammad Ali rope-a-doping with ease.” I will always be her big, strong hero, but deep down, she knows that unless the mugger is nearing 100, the best I can do is tell some jokes, hope they laugh and we mosey on.
The three homes next to us have all been robbed, and one other would have been if it wasn’t for their big barking dog. One of the robberies I watched in real time. I called 911 and because I could not see a gun, she refused to send help. She switched me over to the police station who never picked up.
Most of our local community believes that the penalties for many of these offenses are way too lenient. I can’t count the times that I’ve read that some of these repeaters have been arrested 20 or more times. When I grew up, if I did something wrong and could not lie my way out of it, my mother would say, “If you do that again, you won’t like the punishment.” That did not always stop me, but it scared me enough and made me think twice about the things I did. When I eventually understood how hurt my parents were by my actions, I could not help but feel for them.
So, for now, like most of my friends, I’ll pay some of the highest taxes in the country, shake my head when I walk by a homeless encampment, and wonder when it will be my turn to get conked.
Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer and hosts, along with Danny Lobell, the “We Think It’s Funny” podcast. His new book is “Why Not? Lessons on Comedy, Courage and Chutzpah.”
