What I Learned From Being Robbed at Gunpoint
Scrolling through my Instagram feed yesterday, I came across this picture:
If you can’t read the caption, it says, “Utica Police investigating after body found behind building in the 400 block of Kossuth.”
My next thought was, “Damn, that could’ve been me.”
Flashback to early November 2012. I think it was a Monday, but that’s not important. It was 11:30pm, and I was nearing the end of my eight-hour shift delivering pizzas.
I was in my last year of college, taking a full course load, and busting my ass working 30 – 40 hours every week.
I was working hard so I could live off campus, pay my own bills, and minimize my student loans. It wasn’t easy, but I was proud to be doing it.
On that November night, as I mopped the back room, I heard the phone ring.
It was the dreaded last-minute order.
Our closing time was midnight, and these late orders always delayed me getting home to my bed. Even worse, they usually came from a drunk person or a general pain in the ass who ordered something small and didn’t tip.
This order was an exception.
It was for two pizzas with toppings and a couple orders of wings. Maybe I would end the night on a decent tip after all.
As I pulled up in front of 406 Kossuth Ave for the delivery, I remember seeing a pumpkin smashed in the street and a group of people standing in the alley between 404 and 406 Kossuth.
Both observations made me uneasy, but I was ready for the night to be over, so I hopped out of my car and walked up to the door.
The front door of the building was locked, and there was no buzzer. I called the number, and there was no answer. I asked the people in the alley if they had ordered pizza, and they said no.
Frustrated,I got back in my car and drove back to the shop. Failed delivery attempt.
I assumed the people who ordered the food were drunk, fell asleep, and I was going to go home with their food. Jackpot.
But when I walked back in the pizza shop, the owner told me I had to go back.
“The customer just called. She said she’s disabled and couldn’t get to the door fast enough,” he told me.
What disabled person orders two pizzas and wings at 11:30 and doesn’t have somebody to help get the food? That’s too much food for one person. This doesn’t make sense.
That’s what I should've been thinking. But it was late, and I was tired from a full day of school and work. I got back in my car and drove back to Kossuth Ave. It was well after midnight.
This time, the front door to the building was propped open.
Again, I should’ve been thinking, “red flag,turn around.”
But instead I pushed open the door and entered the rundown building in a shit part of town.
I walked down the hallways, knocked on doors, and nobody claimed the order.Pissed off and mumbling to myself, I stomped down the stairs from the second floor, heading back to my car.
Just before I reached the first-floor landing, I saw it.
A hand wearing a red glove appeared in the small crack of a door that was slightly ajar. As quickly as I saw it, the hand disappeared.
My stomach dropped, I got a surge of adrenaline, and I thought to myself, “oh fuck.”
“Hey! Did you order pizza?” I asked as aggressively as possible. I was trying to hide the fear in my voice.
No reply.
I had to pass the door to get to the exit.
I picked up my pace, trying to get past the cracked door. As I reached the door, it swung open, and I was face to face with the barrel of a shotgun.
“Get inside,” the masked man commanded, motioning into the apartment with the gun.
I slowly put down the pizzas, put up my hands, and calmly responded, “I have $50,an iPhone, and the keys to my car in my pockets. Take what you want, let me go.”
“Get inside,” he said again.
When you negotiate, you always want to approach the situation from a position of power. I was not in a position of power. There was no negotiating to be done. I entered the apartment.
I couldn’t see much since it was dark, but I could see enough to know that nobody lived there. The windows were boarded, and there was no furniture.
“Go to the back,” he yelled.
Based on what I saw, I was pretty sure that if I went to the back, I wouldn’t be returning. I took two steps toward the back, then turned around to try my hand at negotiating again.
Just as I turned, I saw a second person come through the door, wearing a clown mask,and swinging at my face.
As his fist met my face, I had two thoughts: This just went from bad to worse, and, this guy hits like a little bitch.
I had never been punched in the face before, but I was sure it was supposed to hurt more.
It seemed like clown mask guy was surprised also because after four or five punches to the face, I was still standing.
Annoyed that he couldn’t drop me with his lightweight punches, he yelled, “get on the floor!”
I complied, and, keeping my head covered, I made my way to the floor.
After several swift kicks to the ribs, they fished around in my pockets, stole my money and phone, and took off.
I laid on the ground of the dark, dirty, boarded up apartment for about 30 seconds, until I heard the door slam and was sure they were gone.
Then I made my way back to the second floor of the building and asked somebody to call the police.
Within minutes, cops were swarming the building with guns drawn. They took a statement from me, I signed off with the paramedics, and I went home.
The police never caught the guys who kicked my ass and stole my shit. They got $50, an iPhone, and a couple pizzas. Just enough to get high for a day or two.
I gave up pizza delivery, got a different job, and finished college in the spring.
Memento Mori
This incident affected me mildly for a year or two, but after that I didn’t think about it much. Until I saw that picture yesterday.
The brick building on the left is 406 Kossuth. The first-floor apartment on the right side, with the boarded-up window, is where I was robbed. And now, six years later, the police found a dead body behind that building.
This hit me kind of hard.
Was it the same guys?
Have they been traveling down this terrible road for six years and finally decided to pull the trigger.
If my scenario had played out differently, I could’ve been the dead body behind that building.
When I was in college, I had never heard of Stoicism. I didn’t know who Ryan Holiday was, and the only books I read were assigned to me.
I’ve changed a lot since then. I read every day, and I’ve read a lot of Ryan Holiday’s work, specifically on Stoicism.
Holiday talks about a Stoic concept called Memento Mori. This is a Latin phrase meaning, remember death.
Most people only think about death after a close call. A car accident, a health scare, a gun point robbery.
We don’t like to think about death. It’s scary. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s part of life – the final part.
If we spend every day working late instead of playing with our kids, or scrolling through Facebook instead of calling our mothers, one day we will look up and realize the clock ran out.
Remembering death doesn’t mean having a morbid outlook. It means being conscious of the fact that you could check out at any time.
I'm not telling you to live like you're dying.
Don’t go buy expensive shit and use the excuse, “well I might not be here tomorrow, so I might as well enjoy it today.”
Don’t quit your job with no other source of income.
Don’t do dangerous things just because “you might die anyway.”
Those are the interpretations of a fool.
Here’s my advice:
Be responsible.
Get your affairs in order.
Don’t leave your family a steaming pile of shit to clean up if your ticket gets punched tomorrow.
As Holiday says, you should treat each day as the last day before a deployment.Spend time with the people you love, and appreciate what you have.
Memento Mori isn’t an excuse to be reckless. It is a reminder to be present.
Everyone can execute this in their own way. But here’s how I do it:
I try to talk to one of my parents every day.
If I don’t like my work, I focus on enjoying the company of my co-workers.
As much as my workouts suck, I enjoy the hell out of them because if I’m working out, it means my body is functioning properly.
I say “I love you” often.
And I kiss my girlfriend every time I leave, even if I’m just running to the store.
As I learned that November night six years ago, my next breath isn’t guaranteed or owed to me. If I take it now, I don’t want the exhale to be accompanied by regret.
