It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and I was waiting in front of the East Village movie theater at 11th and 3rd for my friend, Laura, to see the movie Julie & Julia. Upon arrival, she commented on the sin of seeing a movie on such an picture perfect day. Unfortunately, in a fit of organization, I had pre-ordered tickets via fandango; into the theater we went.
Throughout the movie, my small black leather and suede handbag lay perched on my lap, enjoying the movie, perhaps, as much as I was.
As the credits rolled, Laura and I discussed the film. "That was pure food porn, as the reviewers said", Laura commented. "Yeah," I responded, "I really enjoyed all the cooking parts, especially with Julia. Her marriage was a little bit over the top though. No one's relationship is that perfect."
Our critique continued as we decided to grab coffee and catch up at the Starbucks in Astor Place. I visited the lady's room while Laura got us coffee. Laura suggested we go for a walk while inhaling on caffeine. I wanted to just sit for a bit, so we decided on a table near the entrance of the shop. I hung my handbag from the back of my chair, sat down, and went in for a sip of coffee. Before my lips had a chance to touch the straw, I felt an odd sensation behind me. It wasn't a physical feeling, really, but a sixth-sense type of awareness. ESP, perhaps?
I quickly turned my head to identify the source. The back of my chair came into full view.
My handbag was gone.
I quickly went through what I have since identified as the three stages of handbag grief.
Denial
No, I hadn't put the handbag on the back of my chair at all. It was really still in the lady's room, hanging on the hook inside the door. Or maybe it was on the table of one of the sugar/equal/splenda/milk/halfandhalf stations. However, a quick check of the restrooms and condiment stations proved futile, and I was impetuously thrust into stage two.
Panic
Oh, crap. Oh, crap, oh, crap, oh, crap. Ohcrapohcrapohcrapohcrap. Crap!
Everything was in there! My cash! My credit cards! The wallet my parents bought me on my 25th birthday! My iPhone! My exclusive Smythson make up bag! What am I going to do? My life is over!
I think this stage would have lasted much longer, had my friend Laura not been there. Thinking about how much my life sucked wasn't going to bring my handbag back to me. Just as quickly as I entered stage two, I left it, and leaped into the final phase.
Action
This is when all of the super-fun administrative tasks begin. If you have even the smallest of organizational bones in your body, it will go into overdrive to the extent that some will wonder if you have obsessive compulsive disorder.
Step 1 - Call the cops
Step 2 - Cancel credit cards
Step 3 - Suspend phone service
Step 4 - Write a list of everything in handbag
Step 5 - Wait for the cops to arrive
Once I flipped into organization mode, I was running on pure adrenaline. My right hand shook furiously as I scrawled a list of my (ex) possessions. Laura and I multi-tasked, calling and re-calling Bank of America, AmEx, my parents, and 911 from her cell phone, a stranger's cell phone, and the Starbuck's landline. I really don't know how I would have done it if I had been by myself. Laura provided some of the necessary material things - a phone, some cash - but, more importantly, the moral, emotional, and intellectual support that I needed at the time. Once again, to Laura, thank you.
A half hour passed as we placed all the most important phone calls, and still the cops where nowhere in site. The credit cards out of the way, I focused my attention on my cellphone.
I should mention that Astor Place is an ideal location to be robbed if one uses AT&T. Not 50 yards down the street is an AT&T store, which 1) assisted me in suspending my phone service, and 2) informed me that I could buy a pre-paid cellphone from K-Mart. Some may be surprised to know that there is a K-Mart in the middle of Manhattan. And it's a big one, too. The rent must be astronomical. And this high-rent, large, middle-of-Manhattan K-Mart happens to be across the street from The Scene of the Crime.
An hour post-crime had passed, and still the cops were not there. With Laura holding down the fort, I headed to the K-Mart electronics department and a store associate helped me decipher the 6,000 options for pre-paid cell phones. New phone in hand, I returned to Starbucks. No cops.
I added to my list of items - no cops. Laura went to withdrawal some money for me at the BofA down the street - no cops. We called 911 two more times - no cops. I watched a weird guy play the guitar outside the door - no cops.
And then, finally, after almost 2.5 hours had passed, two men in blue approached the store. I stood up and waved frantically. "Hi! I'm the one who called! Someone stole me handbag!"
The reaction I got was much the same as when Carrie was held at gunpoint for her Fendi baguette and last season's Manolos. I got not one bit of surprise, sympathy, or even direct eye contact. Those proud men in blue, the ones who are there to serve and protect, made it clear from the getgo that I was nothing but an inconvenience, a nuisance, a "her."
After I attempted to explain what had happened ("Putting your bag on the back of your chair is a really, really bad idea", one of the cops helpfully said), the police determined that I had been a victim of grand larceny and drove me down to the station in the East Village.
Pedestrians eyed me suspiciously as the car drove by. I wanted to scream out "I'm innocent! I swear!" and thrust my non-handcuffed hands in the air for all the world to see, but better judgment prevailed.
Inside the station, the cop who had provided me with the oh-so-helpful piece of advice minutes before threw a clip board in my face. "Fill that out," he grunted. "Let me know if you need another sheet." I began to, once again, list out my possessions.
As I wrote, I heard a familiar sound in the background.
"I can support myself! I'll work four jobs if it will get me Chanel. Do you like this dress? It only cost me three thousand dollars."
It was the unmistakable white trash parlance of Kim, one of the 6 "Real Housewives of Atlanta." I chucked inside as I realized that I shared the same guilty pleasure as a room full of desk duty cops.
Eventually I finished filling out forms, and a tall, handsome man approached me. "I'm Detective XXX, and I'm going to ask you a few questions about what happened."
He took me into an office to get the full rundown of the theft. Unlike the cops, the Detective was kind, sympathetic, and informative.
Mid-way through the interview, a cop spoke loudly and then full-on screamed a mile-long list of curse words, the likes of which I had never previously heard. I've watched my share of R-rated movies, and have seen almost every decent mafia movie ever made. This guy made those mobsters look like kindergarteners. I think Snoop Dog and Marilyn Manson jotted down a few notes.
Turns out, a criminal, temporarily residing in the police station's jail cell, had been storing drugs in his, shall we say, private area. Unsurprisingly, the cop was not too happy about this. Hence, the barrage of curse words.
Minutes later I was on my way home, relieved that my Unlimited 30-day Metrocard was in my pocket, and not in my handbag. I hopped a bus back to my apartment and realized that although the day as a whole had sucked, it had provided me with some unexpected entertainment, and most importantly, a good story to share with you.
