- MIKE FREIHEIT
We were on Beacon Hill, my roommate and I, walking home from Bush Garden after butchering some Springsteen. We’d missed the late 36 bus, so we decided to hoof it. We were at 14th Avenue South and South Atlantic, just past the PacMed building, when a kid in his late teens wearing a black hoodie asked us for the time.
We ignored him and kept walking.
But he kept asking.
Four other kids in the same getup emerged from behind a bush, one of whom had a gun. He pointed it in our faces. Things continued normally from that point (as normally as you’d expect for an armed robbery). They threatened; we complied. I tried to negotiate for my glucometer, but they out-argued me pretty succinctly: “Do you want to get shot, motherfucker?”
Naturally, I said no, and they ransacked our pockets and took off down a side street. They made off with $11, two gently used smartphones, my key ring, my insulin, my glucometer, and my tip check. Fortunately, our other roommate was home, I happen to know her phone number by heart, and I had plenty of backup diabetes supplies at home, including a second glucometer. It was humiliating to be robbed of my valuables, my medicine, and my pride, but it could have been much worse. My roommate and I looked at each other, let it wash over us, and kept walking. The only words we could muster up were “I guess that just happened.”