First Person: Snatch

Having my purse snatched on my way to work one Friday morning was sheer good luck. . I had been running late. I was then the managing editor of a weekly newsletter that went to press on Fridays at 11, and I was supposed to be at work at 8:30 at the latest to pick up the proofs from production and make last-minute changes. It was about 8:50 when I’d gotten on the subway, and I’d been late probably three of the preceding four Fridays.

The trip to midtown on the 6 was excruciating. I berated myself for my irresponsibility the whole way. It was such an embarrassing problem, this oversleeping, indicative of such a pathetic lack of self-control. The issue was particular to Fridays. Mondays, when it hardly mattered, I’d be at the office by 8:30 sharp, dressed in a tailored suit, Wall Street Journal read cover to cover. But by Friday I’d be so tired that I’d invariably sleep right through my alarm and scramble out of the house, a wreck in the first haphazard outfit I could find. Every week when it happened, I’d tell myself I was going to address the problem: I’d stop staying out late drinking and instead set my alarm for 6:30 every day of the week so I’d get on a regular schedule. But I always forgot my plans soon after the glower wore off my boss’ face. (Another character flaw: lack of follow-through.)

It was getting really bad. The Friday before, my boss had called me in for a talk about it. I was 24 and was managing people twice my age. I had an office with a window looking out on Madison Ave. I’d been promoted rapidly, and this stupid punctuality thing was making my boss wonder if he’d made a mistake.

By the time I emerged from the subway, I was a mass of dread and self-loathing, and I didn’t imagine that anything could possibly happen to improve my situation. But as I stood in a knot of impeccably dressed midtown office workers waiting to cross Lexington at 51st St., something did.

It began with a faint ripple that pulsed through the crowd. A burly man with dark, bushy hair was darting through. Just as I was thinking how rude that was, I felt my purse being tugged, and instinctively I just let go, as if I assumed naturally that the person pulling had a legitimate reason to do so—perhaps to prevent my MetroCard from falling out.

It took me about half a second to understand that the man had stolen my purse, and for a moment more I was too shy to disturb the blank-faced, well-groomed adults who surrounded me. But then a vision of my life without the purse flashed before me: I’d have to spend the weekend making calls to the credit card companies, I’d need to get a new driver’s license and, worst of all, I wouldn’t have cash to get a bagel and coffee from the cart. "My purse!" I screamed. "He took my purse!"

Everyone seemed to step back to allow me to run after the man, but helpwise that was it, for the moment. I chased the man north on Lexington, continuing to scream all the way. About halfway to 52nd I was so close I actually grazed his backpack with my hand. Then I realized that I didn’t know precisely what I would do when I caught him. I’m 5-foot-4, he must have been at least 6 feet. But I kept running, and luckily I kept screaming, though I don’t think I had yet realized why that was the right thing to do.

I was starting to slow down and feel hopeless when I noticed that someone else had joined in the chase. Another man, slim and blond, had heeded my shouts and ran to my side. "That’s the guy?" he asked, pointing. I nodded. The Good Samaritan took off, and I let myself fall farther behind. They disappeared around a corner, and when I finally turned, I saw, to my astonishment, that the blond man had the thief on the ground.

By the time I ambled over, out of breath, a police squad car had pulled up and officers were getting out. The blond man gave me my purse, and an officer asked if I was all right. That’s when it hit me—I was now the Victim, not a feckless good-for-nothing. My boss would surely see it that way, too.

Basking in the officers’ solicitude, I walked to the police station with them to file a report. By the time we got there I felt almost guilty that they were being so nice to me. I mean, I hadn’t really been a victim, not of anything heinous. I certainly hadn’t been scared. Not like the thief, who looked terrified when he was brought in moments later. His hands cuffed behind his back made his chest jut forward, and he resembled an oversized child. Looking at him, I felt really guilty. My problems were solved—I knew I wouldn’t get in trouble at work, not after this—while his were just beginning. I felt, oddly, as if I’d used him.

To my further dismay, the blond man never came: he’d had to get to work, an officer told me, and gave me my hero’s phone number and address so I could thank him later. I was quickly surrounded by officers, who kept asking if the man had hurt me, maybe pulled on my arm and dislocated a shoulder when he took the purse. No no, I kept saying, finally realizing that they were so proud of making such a glorious arrest—"perp apprehended in the act"—that they were eager for any means of trumping up the charges to assault. The arresting officers were constantly being congratulated and having their backs slapped, as if they had been the ones who chased the guy down. I knew that if I hadn’t run after the guy, if I had simply gone empty-handed to the station to report the purse-snatching, I would have been met with bored faces and told dryly to fill out a form. As it was, however, I was at the center of the precinct’s great success of the day, and they loved me for it.

Naturally, it was no trouble for a sergeant to call my boss to explain what had happened and where I was. I figured that the precise time of the incident would get lost, and no one would ever know that I had already been exceedingly late when I had been mugged. My boss would just assume that I’d been too shaken up to ask the officer to call until then or that the paperwork at the station had taken that long.

Which is exactly what happened. I regaled everyone at work with my tale of bravery. The next week, when someone else was late, my boss even complained to me, "It’s not as if he has a good reason—it’s not as if I got a call from the police."

I smiled weakly. It was Wednesday, and I suspected my reprieve would be short-lived. I wasn’t likely to be so fortunate the coming Friday.