It’s a Wednesday, June 2008. Warm, glowing, the day slowly falls away. It is evening now. I sit at a table, one-in from the pub / club’s entry. It is busy, not bustling. Hip-set patrons come and go, the city’s underground sub-culture seeing and seen. Tunes reflect the not pop-chart tastes: The Pixies, The Velvets, The Butthole Surfers. There is a diversity of instinctual rebellion here, both on-the-level and of questionable intent: those defying popular trends and those defying everything, generally. . . . It is a scene.

I drink beer, read a book, waiting to, but in no rush to place a dinner order. On the table, I have carelessly placed my brand new 399.99 iPhone. A brilliant new innovation as of June 2008, here is the first true hand-held mini-computer combining the utility of a phone with an online internet communication and real media player + supporting software application platform. It’s a “laptop lite” that you can carry around in your pocket. But more so, it is way fucking cool. Having waited almost a year since its initial release, I had waited long enough and had finally shelled out hard-earned earnings for this technological marvel. . . . And there it rests, on the edge of the dark heavily-varnished table closest to the pub-part-of-the-club’s open entryway.

Hipsters enter. Hipsters exit. I read, drink my beer, waiting on my tat-sleeved hipster waitress. I am one, enmeshed in the scene. That the careless placement of my iPhone tempts a crime-of-opportunity is not, at the moment, evident. It is too slack, too carefree a moment. I read, drink. The new Black Keys rips up, filling the low-lit front room right then flooded in the fading orange of a summer evening. No, a faith in humanity’s ability to do-the-right thing, to adhere to the accepted laws of “civilized,” is not being consciously mulled at the moment. I am not testing the waters here. This is no laboratory. I wouldn’t waste my time in this den of defiance. The boundaries are already evident: there are none. The rule of law, polite society, proper behavioral patterns, these are some of the first creeds to fall before an instinct that tacks when expected to stay-the-course. Defiance for defiance’s sake: so quintessentially American. I would not be fool enough to tempt nature. I am just drinking, nonchalantly, thinking of little at all. That is just where I happened to place my phone when I sat down . . .

And so, I am not surprised, not in the least. A skinny angular kid, mid 20s or so—more defiant as a matter of course than rebel hipster—has grabbed my iPhone and has exited in a swift single instant. It comes as no surprise, as I knock over my chair and exit the entryway, taking up my pursuit of the perp with fluid ease, it runs through my head as obvious, expected even: one of those “of course tie as going to go down like this” moments that shines a spotlight on the blatant and obvious. It all makes perfect sense, playing out according to the natural laws of the moment, the scene. No surprises here. . . . And neither is it a surprise that my pursuit is signal, instinctual. There was no yelling. No: “Hey! Hey, stop him! He’s got my new iPhone!” No, none of that time and breath wasting pablum. There is just my focused pursuit having commenced with resolute energy, and but a split-second in wake of this petty act of theft. It was understood, between us both: victim and perp having made in that instant an irrevocable and inviolable pact: There would be one outcome and one only; and the near future would be levy said judgment here soon enough. It was understood for what it was before it had even occurred. The rules of nature were already in play. There was no need for reflection, no need to yell or acquire the willing help of fellow deviant hipsters. That would have amounted wasteful emotional response in the face of nature just going about its business, blatantly, obviously. The perp had grabbed what was valuable of mine and ran. Hot pursuit was the only logical course.

And so, here we find ourselves on this warm glowing evening, June 2008: the perp with my iPhone clutched in his hand, running with abandon down the sidewalk with me in hot pursuit. He looks over his shoulder too often. He is costing himself precious seconds. I am already in his head. He is thinking not acting. Inefficient, a clear (sad) lack of control, losing focus on what is in front of him and, as a result, surprised by obstacles / impediments to successful evasion.

I on the other hand, am zeroed-in. The scenario is all in front of me. The punk ass, he is weak. His whole flight is weak, surprised because he is not paying attention to what is important to his strategy. He is without a tactical sense. He is not evaluating with split-second precision, improvising. Instead he weaves at the last second to avoid pedestrians, hard cuts and turns, no fluidity. He is tallying up quite the bill, costing himself a quarter-second here and a half-second there. And all the while I am making up split-second by split-second. His cool (if he had any to begin with) is failing him. My eyes are slits, like lasers. I gauge pedestrians, lamp posts, a dog leashed to a newspaper box. It is all 20 / 20, navigating it all in advance, veering with the least amount of effort, cutting corners with slight parabolas while maintaining, even building speed—as little deviance from a straight line between me and the perp. He is wild in his attempt to escape. I am efficient in my attempt to thwart escape.

He runs into a couple, spins, balancing on a single foot before catching himself and hurtling recklessly towards the intersection ahead. I gain several steps, my path having accounted for the pedestrians ahead of time. The perp, still clutching my iPhone—befouling it—barrels on into the intersection against traffic. He is forced to pull up short, halting for a car that would have run him down; the car passing slowly, a fist-raised and yelling streaming from the open window. The frenetic stopping-starting has doomed the perp’s escape. I slow, slightly, timing it to a gap in traffic without ever coming to a halt. I glide perfectly through the intersection, power back up to full speed in a few strides. I harness my power with a slight grin, a touch of bravado even.

We are on the opposite sidewalk past the intersection. It is no longer a matter of if, but when. His erratic inefficiency has cost him his getaway. I time my breaths to my stride, gaining on him steadily, rapidly. As if in deference to my masterful pursuit, bystanders stand aside. I am an Olympian, the street-sides lined with adoring throngs marveling, agape. They are anticipating the climactic moment. They sense it. The perp can sense it. I know it. My anger, having funneled into pure streamlined intensity, powers sure athletic motion. . . .

It is time. I leap. I bring the perp down hard. The full weight of my intensity and sure purpose fall hard atop him as the weight-of-worlds, judgment delivered. The perp’s body takes the full brunt of the sidewalk’s hard unmistakeable truth, as it cushions my righteousness in the process. He absorbs the pain and suffering of having messed with me, our bruising momentum skidding to a halt atop unforgiving concrete. It all concludes as if pre-ordained: the destined result of tempting nature.

I stand, brush myself off, and smooth back my hair. I catch my wind in a single breath, my composure or marble. I do not say a word. What needs to be said? I pick my undamaged unscathed technological marvel from the perp’s limp grasp. I stare down at the groaning broken heap of flesh. I am feeling sorry for him, really; my benevolence simply rounding the glow of victory about me. Bystanders stand by, mouths wide. They are stunned to satisfaction. iPhone in hand is all the satisfaction I need. I leave the semi-conscious perp to reflect on his very public defeat. I make way back to the pub, not a scratch on me, and pick up where I left off . . .

 

Or, at least, that’s how I envision it having unfolded. . . . I remove my carelessly placed iPhone from table to short’s pocket and take down a long satisfying drink of cold beer.