The event detailed below is not for the faint of heart. While it took place a couple of years ago, I still have nightmares–mostly over the opportunity of lost money!

 

I'm hard on the outside and fake on the inside.

I’m hard on the outside and fake on the inside.

Today, I was standing in front of a taco truck on Wilshire Blvd waiting for my order to be served.   That’s when I heard  two bicycles colliding immediately behind the truck.

I peeked around the bumper and noticed a 6 ft, skinny, 30 year-old black guy standing on a bike while hanging onto the hooded sweatshirt of a smaller, similarly slender, 21 year-old white guy.  A second bike was strewn at the feet of the white guy.

The black cat hollared, “Stop’em!  He’s stealing my bike!”

Say, what?!

I’d seen this kind of thing on TV and for a second I wondered if it was a hoax.  My producer-sense told me it was just the kind of inverted racial stereotype that would make for good TV–on some, What Would You Do type tip.

But before I could survey the street for hidden cameras, the thief  broke free from the victim.  He pulled himself away so violently, the hood ripped right off his sweatshirt.  The black dude held it in his hand.

Free and with a wild look in his eyes the thief ran right in my direction.

With no time to deliberate, I slipped into JV linebacker mode: I shifted laterally, squared up, lowered my shoulder, hit and then wrapped the thief into submission.

I put the patented Chicano fat-guy bear hug on him while some wimps, err… bystanders called 9-1-1.

I held him oh so tight.  The thief struggled oh so little.  He then admitted he was caught and said he wouldn’t run so (against my better judgement) I let him go.

And he didn’t run.  And a  crowd started to gather.

That’s when shit got very funny.

The victim looked at the thief and said,  “Man, I should beat your ass right now. How much money do you have in your pocket?”

“Man, I’m broke,“ the thief pouted.  He took out his wallet to prove it was empty.

Ah shit, I can’t even front, I started to feel bad for thief.

“So, you’re broke? That’s why you’re doing this?” the victim asked.

Ah shit,  he can’t front, the victim is starting to feel bad for the dude too.

“But I can go to the bank. “

He pulled out his Chase card and pointed across the street.

“How much can you get out?”

The victim looked to me as if to imply we’ll share the dough.  I WAS a hero after all.

“$30.”

$30?  I’m thinking dude should take it.  His bike looked shitty.

I grinned.  It started to look like lunch might be free.

“Nah, man.  I’m going to need a $100.  That’s about what you would’ve gotten for my bike if you sold it.  I’m going to let the cops talk to you.”

DAAAAMMMMMIT!  

“Senor, your tacos are ready.”

I grabbed my tacos, paid my bill and exited to the sound of police sirens in the distance.