Originally published in 2010
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 what sounded like two bicycles colliding.
I peeked around the bumper and noticed a tall, lanky 30 year-old black guy seated on his bike but hanging onto the hooded sweatshirt of a skinny, short 20 something white guy.
A second bike lay at the feet of the white guy.
The black dude bellowed, “Stop this guy! He’s a thief.”
Say, what?!
I’d seen this kind of thing on TV and for a second I wondered if it was a hoax.
Before I could scope the scene for hidden cameras, the thief broke free from the victim—thereby ripping the hood right off his sweatshirt.
Like, “Riiiiiiip.”
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.
That’s on mommas and them.
I put the patented Chicano fat-guy bear hug on him while some wimps, err… bystanders, called 9-1-1.
The thief struggled very little. He admitted he was caught and, defeated, said he wouldn’t run, so I let him go.
And he didn’t run.
And a crowd started to gather. That’s when things got very funny.
The black dude 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 white dude said apologetically. He took out his wallet to prove that it was empty.
I can’t front, I started to feel bad for the white dude.
“So, you’re broke? That’s why you’re doing this?” the black dude said, sympathetically.
Oh shit, the victim is starting to feel bad for the dude.
“But I can go to the bank,” the white guy quickly responded, sensing a chance to get out of here without involving the cops.
He pulled out his Chase card and pointed across the street.
“How much can you get out?”
The black dude looked to me as if to imply we’ll share the dough.
“30.”
30? I’m thinking dude should take it. His bike looked shitty.
“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.”
DAMN.
“Senor, your tacos are ready.”
I grabbed my tacos and exited to the sound of police sirens in the distance.