I was mugged on the promenade.

And I did what I had to do.

I was on my way home from work the evening of December 20, a little later than usual but not too late, about 8:30.  And I took my normal route out of the subway, crossing at the crosswalk before the bus stop and down to the promenade to walk along the river and enjoy the water vistas so beautifully afforded us who live here.  Occupied with thoughts of my wife and son with whom I would soon be spending the remains of a very long workday, I was paying little attention to what was going on around me.  It wasn’t until I was approaching the second set of stone stairs that head up from the promenade to the street above that I noticed them.

There was the small one walking in the opposite direction toward the subway.  There was another, taller and slim just ahead to my left as I was walking, and a third similar to the second, dead ahead.  Still nothing entered my head except a few youths walking along.  The small one looked intently at me as we passed.  I looked at him and thought of saying hello but changed my mind.  A couple of steps more and the three of them were on me, pushing me up against the wall.  The little one whipped out a long-barreled gun, and in a flash of silver or white it was up against my neck, under my jaw.

“Give us your money,” the middle one demanded.

“Please, don’t take my ID,” I said as my hands went up.

The middle one and the one to my right, the two taller ones, started to go through the pockets of my pants, shirt and open jacket.

They weren’t finding anything.  I keep my wallet in my side bag that was slung over my shoulder.

The few seconds of their frantic search and rising frustration gave me a moment to recover from the initial shock of the attack, and thoughts rushed into my mind.  The gun that was held to my neck and at that moment was being withdrawn – I was sure was plastic.  It had that light, hollow, and somewhat slippery feel that is so characteristic of plastic.  I was sure it was not a real gun.

“Where’s the money!” the tall one in front of me demanded, frustrated and angered.

“It’s not there,“ I responded.  “It’s in the bag.”

Years earlier I had been attacked similarly, but in an even more open and public place, the concourse level of Rockefeller Center right outside the post office.  In that instance all they used was a finger.  At that time, I listened to everything I had ever heard: “Don’t resist,“ “Give them whatever they want.”  They got clean away with a lot of value.  Afterward, for the longest time I was upset with myself.  I had let myself be violated and deeply abused by a finger.  The sense of impotence was deeply disturbing and it took me a long period of fantasy-filled nights and frustration-laden days for me to recover.  A long time.

Here I was again being attacked with a phony weapon, and I knew if I didn’t act I would be doomed to more of the awfulness I had experienced before, only now, having it so close to home, on our Island, it would only be much worse.  I had to do something.  I had to act.

The small one on my left had almost disappeared.  The other two were tall but slim and certainly not muscular.  And we were in a moment of hesitation.  They had not found what they thought they would, where they thought they would.  I had just told them they wouldn’t, they had to look elsewhere.

In that split-second, when they had to reorient themselves to become aware of the bag hanging over my shoulder, I decided to act.

I bolted to the right heading for the stairs only three or four feet away and started to scream, “Police!“ and “Help!” as loud as I could.  They grabbed at me.  I struggled to get free pulling hard.  My jacket tore.  I fell on the stairs a step or two up.  My bag fell off.  They let go.  It was the wallet in the bag they had been after.

I made it to the top of the stairs.  There were two more on the broad stone walkway that leads from the stairs to the street – one only five or six feet away, the other closer to the street clearly blocking my way, menacing.  Now, I felt I would have to face them.  I turned and headed back down the stairs.  My bag was at the bottom, and I could see two of the original three running toward the subway, perhaps thirty to forty feet away.  I picked up my bag and made a few steps after them.  They stopped and looked like they were going to come at me.  I didn’t feel brave enough to face them.  I turned and ran back up the stairs continuing my screaming for “policet“ and “help.”  The two who had been on the stone walkway had disappeared.  I ran to the street and looked toward the subway.  One was entering.  A second was not far behind.  The first apparently had already disappeared under ground.  I took off for the subway.

As I ran I searched my bag with one hand and found my keys. That was a big relief.

I tore into the subway. I told the token booth clerk that I had been assaulted and they had run into the subway.  He got on the microphone and apparently started whatever procedure is mandated for such a situation.

“Can you stop the train?“ I demanded.  No response.  “Can you stop the train?“ I demanded again even more forcefully.  “No,” he responded.

The thoughts flashed through my head again:  It had been a phony gun...  I was right about that...  If they had anything more, like a knife, they would have used it in the struggle...  One is small, the other two slim and not powerful...  I was sure of that from how I had been able to struggle against two of them...  There would be more people on the platform...

The odds were slim, but maybe I could do something.  Besides, I had to act.  I couldn’t just stay there cowering, scared, waiting for someone to pay attention, to help.  No one had even bothered to look my way during all my screaming of “police“ and “help” out on the promenade and stone steps.

“Hold my keys,” I shouted to the token booth clerk as I slid them through the change slot.  I didn’t want to chance losing them again.

I bolted through the gate and ran down the escalator.  I had no idea which side they might be on but, out of habit, I ran down the stairs to the Manhattan bound platform, almost as if I were going to work.

I hit the platform and turned.  Bingo!  I was face to face with the small one.  A momentary stare – I at him, he at me – and he was running down the platform.  He disappeared up the escalator just as a Queens-bound train on the other side was off-loading passengers.  I turned and tore back up the stairs to the mezzanine just in time to hear the signal of the doors closing and my assailant cross the mezzanine to try and make the train.

“You’ll never make it,” I screamed after him.  Then I heard the doors being held.  Obviously his buddies had made it, and they were holding it for him.

I flashed across the mezzanine and down the stairs.  The doors had closed and the train had just started to move.  I whipped around and ran up to the conductor before the train had a chance to gather much speed.

“I’ve been assaulted,“ I screamed.  “They’re on the train.  Stop the train!”

Her hand shot up.  The emergency was pulled.  The train jerked to a stop.  Only the front car had left the station.  It was the newer-type train with the locked cars.  They were trapped.

Public Safety was there shortly.  Then the police.  A couple of people who had seen which car they had run into, came forward.  I identified them.  They were taken off and put up against the wall to be frisked.

“Hey, man, what ya...,” one of them gave lip trying to turn back around.  The police made short work of that and his hands were back against the wall, his feet spread apart.

One of the passengers on the train told the police, “The heat is under the seat.”  There they found the gun, a white plastic toy.

It was some time in the station with many questions and explanations to make.  Back up by the token booth, I had to ask an officer to borrow a quarter to call home.

“Kasia,“ I said to my wife, “I’m all right.”  Of course, she knew something was wrong. And then I explained what had happened.

As I waited for her and my son to come, answering questions from various police officers, they brought the three attackers up in handcuffs.

“Hey,“ I shouted as they were brought by, “tell me what you did with my wallet and I’ll think about dropping the charges.”

They didn’t respond.  I really hadn’t expected them to respond, but I had to say it.  Saying it – and especially the way I said it – was sending them a clear message:  You were awfully stupid to think you could so easily scare someone and simply get away with it.

Soon, I boarded a police van to head to the district office.  (Because the arrest had been made in the subway, the transit division handled it, and they have districts, not precincts.)  As we were sitting preparing to depart, a woman walked up and held up my wallet.  She had found it on the promenade, in the dock area.  All my credit cards and ID were there.  Only the cash – eleven dollars and change – was missing.

At the police station, it is a long process in such a situation.  After I’d waited quite some time, a detective took a statement from me.  He told me that one of my attackers – the short one who had put the gun to my neck – is only fourteen.  Afterward, they asked me to wait in the lunchroom where I would be distant and removed from the suspects.  Then it was mostly waiting and waiting.

After a long time, I stepped out into the corridor to stretch my legs.  When I looked down the corridor to the front of the station, I could see two women with coats on sitting in the waiting area.  The detective who had interviewed me was talking to one of them.  Then he left.  I looked closely at her.  She was visibly upset.  I reasoned that she must be the mother of one of them.

My initial thought was to go to her, to talk to her.  Then I thought that this is probably frowned upon.  This is not considered to be the “appropriate“ or “right“ thing to do.  I was sure the police thought this way, and probably most people and society at large, as well.  Then, I thought, if I had followed what was “appropriate“ or “right” in response to the attack, how would I feel now?  I had to act the way I had, and I had to walk that corridor and talk with that mother.

“I’m sure this is terribly upsetting and stressful for you,“ I said, taking my hat off.  “I am sure this is awful for you, and I feel very much for you and am sorry for all you are going though.”

“Are you a policeman,” she asked me.

“No, I’m the person they attacked,” I said calmly trying to be as reassuring as I could.

“He was only tagging along with the others,” the other woman said.

I turned toward her.  Now I was sure these were relatives of the 14-year old.  I didn’t want rancor or to be shocking, so I chose not to tell her that it was he who held the gun to my head.

“Even if he were tagging along, he was with them.  He knew what they were up to.  He was involved.”

Her response was only a small nod of the head.

“I’m sorry that it happened,“ I said, directing my attention back to the mother, “but I cannot let it drop.  It would give a terribly wrong message to them.  I can only hope that your son will be able to take this and learn from it and go on and straighten out.”

There was no response but somehow I sensed she knew I was right.

By this time the detective reappeared and admonished me for talking to them and shooed me back to the lunchroom.

There was quite a bit more waiting, but eventually, as all things do, it came to an end.  I was home by 2:30 a.m.

Since then, there has been a grand-jury indictment.  And should they not plead guilty, a trial will roll around in eight or nine months.  My left knee, which received a fairly severe hit, is healing nicely and will shortly be as good as new.  My wife and son are reassured and life at home and work and community is back to normal.

But it didn’t come quite so easily.  I had to react the way I did.  If I hadn’t, I would have been emotionally lacerated, perhaps scarred.  It is even painful just to think how it would have felt.  And even with the way I reacted, it took me a week or more to be satisfied with my response.  For several nights, I woke from sleep and found my mind filling with fantasies of fighting them instead of trying to run away.  I couldn’t clear my head of the fantasies and go easily back to sleep.  I found myself imagining vividly and in some detail how I would have pounded them into the ground.  I was feeling I hadn’t done enough to satisfy my emotions.  As much as I might tell myself I had reacted well, that I had succeeded remarkably well, it somehow was not enough.  So it took several nights of disturbed sleep and fantasies and, above all, time for those feelings to become resolved and to feel a sense of emotional satisfaction with what I had done.

What I had had to do.