The
Written Word
Mugged
After exchanging US
Travelers Checks for British pounds, I walked out of the American
Express office while at the same time buttoning my front shirt pocket.
Not thinking, or realizing I had just made a huge mistake. My father
had told me time and time again; never count money at night someone
might be looking in the window. It was not night, but here I was in one
of the largest cities in the world and I'm finishing up the touches of
putting money away as I'm walking into the street. Mistake number one!
I was in Soho, known as
an artsy section of London, England. A place that has everything a
wondering, traveling mind would want, or need for stimulation,
including a lot of unsavory characters. Soho is a trendy place to be,
it has fantastic restaurants, coffee shops, art galleries, street
venders, whores, strip joints and a million people to watch. It is
also, as I was to learn first hand, a feeding ground for hustlers,
pimps and crooks.
It was the middle of the afternoon, broad daylight, and with the first step into this abyss I knew something was wrong. An uneasy feeling was with me and it did not feel right. I became uneasy. I did not fallow my instincts and get the hell out of the storm that was brewing. This was mistake number two. I have been into many places that did not feel right, an healthy environment for to be in. But, following my gut feeling, my instincts kept me safe, or at least I thought it did. I have never feared going any place, or any part of a foreign town, or country. I just relied on my wits, when something didn't feel right to me I would just back out. But this time in London I didn't listen to that inner feeling, that primal instinct of being aware of danger and got into a bad situation.
As I mentioned previously, Soho is where the strippers are. Neon signs and billboards advertising "Nude Girls, Sexy Girls and Exotic Dancers" are around every corner. At this time in my life I was working on a project that kept me in the company of exotic dancers. I had been spending a lot of time with them in the states and I thought talking to one from England might put a nice touch to my project. I wanted to get a foreign outlook on this profession. In the states I had established a comfort level with strippers and was able to record some very enlightening interviews. Some of the dancers I had talked to really opened up and spoke freely, without any inhibitions. The problem, and mistake number three, was the English strippers were working for people that could not see the journalist walking through the door, they just saw some dumb Yank putting English Pounds in his pocket.
I wondered into this den of iniquity, like a lamb to slaughter. Two beautiful, scantly clad woman started rubbed up against me, pawing and patting, then lead me, like a bull with a ring in his nose, down a set of narrow stairs that was barely wide enough to allow my shoulders through. I had to turn them slightly to allow for the rapid decent that I was being slightly forced into. When we hit the bottom of the stairs they opened into a dimly lit room smelling of stale beer, mildew and years of old cigarette smoke. In rows on each side of the room were booths, seemingly from a 1950’s soda Shoppe. On the back wall, and farthest from the entrance, was a small stage with a wide leaf imitation plant. I think it was some type of fern, but with the tobacco tar on the curled leaves I never knew for sure.
It was the middle of the afternoon, broad daylight, and with the first step into this abyss I knew something was wrong. An uneasy feeling was with me and it did not feel right. I became uneasy. I did not fallow my instincts and get the hell out of the storm that was brewing. This was mistake number two. I have been into many places that did not feel right, an healthy environment for to be in. But, following my gut feeling, my instincts kept me safe, or at least I thought it did. I have never feared going any place, or any part of a foreign town, or country. I just relied on my wits, when something didn't feel right to me I would just back out. But this time in London I didn't listen to that inner feeling, that primal instinct of being aware of danger and got into a bad situation.
As I mentioned previously, Soho is where the strippers are. Neon signs and billboards advertising "Nude Girls, Sexy Girls and Exotic Dancers" are around every corner. At this time in my life I was working on a project that kept me in the company of exotic dancers. I had been spending a lot of time with them in the states and I thought talking to one from England might put a nice touch to my project. I wanted to get a foreign outlook on this profession. In the states I had established a comfort level with strippers and was able to record some very enlightening interviews. Some of the dancers I had talked to really opened up and spoke freely, without any inhibitions. The problem, and mistake number three, was the English strippers were working for people that could not see the journalist walking through the door, they just saw some dumb Yank putting English Pounds in his pocket.
I wondered into this den of iniquity, like a lamb to slaughter. Two beautiful, scantly clad woman started rubbed up against me, pawing and patting, then lead me, like a bull with a ring in his nose, down a set of narrow stairs that was barely wide enough to allow my shoulders through. I had to turn them slightly to allow for the rapid decent that I was being slightly forced into. When we hit the bottom of the stairs they opened into a dimly lit room smelling of stale beer, mildew and years of old cigarette smoke. In rows on each side of the room were booths, seemingly from a 1950’s soda Shoppe. On the back wall, and farthest from the entrance, was a small stage with a wide leaf imitation plant. I think it was some type of fern, but with the tobacco tar on the curled leaves I never knew for sure.
The woman leading me
into this decent were the bait, they were gorgeous with large
surgically enhanced breasts. Big round tits that were strained and
screaming to get out of the fake leather corsets that they were
wearing. They slid me into a sticky, plastic covered booth and sit a
warm beer down. As the bump and grind music started playing they
disappeared and onto the stage came the entertainment, my first English
stripper. There was no seduction, or talent in her dance. Her
appearance lacked any resemblance to being sexy, or exotic. As she
waddled onto the stage her tits with huge nipples, pointing south
towards the black combat boots that she was wearing, swaying back and
forth with her walk, not to the music. Below the loose roll of her
midriff, which was marked with bright red stretch marks, was a pair of
black knickers that covered her nether regions. The same style
underwear that I had seen hanging in the breeze under the apple tree on
my grandmothers clothesline. When she was done with her ill-fated
attempt of being sexual, she strolled up to my booth and slid in along
side me, her loose damp skin skidding across the plastic seat sounded
like she was breaking wind. The look in her red eyes were far from
sexy, but more of boredom and fatigue.
Being a gentleman, and for a brief moment a slight twinge of pity, I tipped her, complimented her on her performance and started to engage in some mild conversation. As the conversation quickly moved forward, I brought up the possibilities of her talking to me about her life as a stripper. She quickly informed me she really wasn't a dancer, a fact that I also came to the conclusion of. She suggested that I talk to the other girls that worked at night. She tried desperately to get me another beer, which I declined gracefully and told her I would come back later. I had enough and it was time to make a hasty exit. Before I could get to my feet and to the stairs I had earlier been squeezed down, it filled with woman of all shapes, sizes and appearances. The cosmetic painted faces had one common denominator, no smiles. I have no idea where they all came from, but an exit through this female gauntlet that appeared form nowhere was not going to happen. Then the issue of money was loudly announced as two blokes came out of from a back room. It was obvious that they were not from customer service, nor did they care about my opinion of the tired dancing maiden, or the beer. These thugs had a menacing demeanor and very "mater-of –fact" about their request for money.
It was time to get out of an unhealthy situation. All I could think to do was give them the money they were asking for, at least some of it. I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out about 30 English Pounds. Like a lizard catching a fly, it was quickly snatched from my hand with the word, "more," echoing across the room.
"More," I said. “I don't have any more."
These were empty words bouncing across an emptier room. Everyone heard the paper crunch as a long finger adorned with a large, fake diamond ring reached out of the crowd and poked my shirt pocket.
"Sure you do Love," said a deep Cockney accent.
Her words made my heart sink, and when the closest thug opened his leather coat to expose the wooden handle of a revolver, my ass tightened. My daddy hadn't raised a fool, at lest not a complete fool, so with nothing more then self-preservation I unbuttoned my shirt pocket and handed them the money. They grabbed it, unfolded it, and the remaining Travelers Checks I had with the cash were handed back to me. I said thanks, for reasons I'm still not sure of and looked at the blocked stairs that was now filled with nothing but a few pieces of paper and dust. I walked up them slowly hearing each step creak with my humiliation and stepped out into the light. I scanned the river of people walking down the street, their eyes looking down, but I knew they knew what had just happened. I looked for someone to stop and tell that I had just been robbed, but no one would look, no one cared. To look at me they might have to get involved and no one was willing to take that chance. I realized that it didn't mater. I did not care because I was alive. I had just been mugged, violated and robbed of what was mine. But wait. I really was robbed and anger started to engulf me. This really pissed me off. I had been violated. I had not listened to the inner voice of self-preservation and had lost my money. My hard earned cash that was always in short supply. What did they think? Just because I'm an American I was made of money. I had to do something about this. I had to get even, or at the very least I had to teach them a lesson.
I mustered up some brave stupidity, coated with vengeance, pulled out the camera from my satchel and went back in the door. It was going to be genocide. I was shooting anything and everything. I might not get my money back, but I was going to document these low-down scoundrels that did this to me. At the counter was one of the one of the well endowed, cleavage clad vipers coiling for her next victim. I took aim, focused and started shooting. The spinning motor drive, on my Nikon, sounded like the rapid fire of an M-16 assault rifle. As I exposed her to film she started screaming as if she was being hit with full metal jackets. To my right I heard the response to her death cries. It sounded like a thousand people; a full troop of reinforcements running up the same creaky stairs that I had just took my walk of shame on. Like I said, my daddy did not raise a fool. My valor, honor and pride dissipated along with my ego and I turned and ducked out the door using urban escape and evasion tactics learned in the Army. Quickly I lost myself amongst the human river of tourist, crooks and geeks that walk the streets of Soho.
Being a gentleman, and for a brief moment a slight twinge of pity, I tipped her, complimented her on her performance and started to engage in some mild conversation. As the conversation quickly moved forward, I brought up the possibilities of her talking to me about her life as a stripper. She quickly informed me she really wasn't a dancer, a fact that I also came to the conclusion of. She suggested that I talk to the other girls that worked at night. She tried desperately to get me another beer, which I declined gracefully and told her I would come back later. I had enough and it was time to make a hasty exit. Before I could get to my feet and to the stairs I had earlier been squeezed down, it filled with woman of all shapes, sizes and appearances. The cosmetic painted faces had one common denominator, no smiles. I have no idea where they all came from, but an exit through this female gauntlet that appeared form nowhere was not going to happen. Then the issue of money was loudly announced as two blokes came out of from a back room. It was obvious that they were not from customer service, nor did they care about my opinion of the tired dancing maiden, or the beer. These thugs had a menacing demeanor and very "mater-of –fact" about their request for money.
It was time to get out of an unhealthy situation. All I could think to do was give them the money they were asking for, at least some of it. I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out about 30 English Pounds. Like a lizard catching a fly, it was quickly snatched from my hand with the word, "more," echoing across the room.
"More," I said. “I don't have any more."
These were empty words bouncing across an emptier room. Everyone heard the paper crunch as a long finger adorned with a large, fake diamond ring reached out of the crowd and poked my shirt pocket.
"Sure you do Love," said a deep Cockney accent.
Her words made my heart sink, and when the closest thug opened his leather coat to expose the wooden handle of a revolver, my ass tightened. My daddy hadn't raised a fool, at lest not a complete fool, so with nothing more then self-preservation I unbuttoned my shirt pocket and handed them the money. They grabbed it, unfolded it, and the remaining Travelers Checks I had with the cash were handed back to me. I said thanks, for reasons I'm still not sure of and looked at the blocked stairs that was now filled with nothing but a few pieces of paper and dust. I walked up them slowly hearing each step creak with my humiliation and stepped out into the light. I scanned the river of people walking down the street, their eyes looking down, but I knew they knew what had just happened. I looked for someone to stop and tell that I had just been robbed, but no one would look, no one cared. To look at me they might have to get involved and no one was willing to take that chance. I realized that it didn't mater. I did not care because I was alive. I had just been mugged, violated and robbed of what was mine. But wait. I really was robbed and anger started to engulf me. This really pissed me off. I had been violated. I had not listened to the inner voice of self-preservation and had lost my money. My hard earned cash that was always in short supply. What did they think? Just because I'm an American I was made of money. I had to do something about this. I had to get even, or at the very least I had to teach them a lesson.
I mustered up some brave stupidity, coated with vengeance, pulled out the camera from my satchel and went back in the door. It was going to be genocide. I was shooting anything and everything. I might not get my money back, but I was going to document these low-down scoundrels that did this to me. At the counter was one of the one of the well endowed, cleavage clad vipers coiling for her next victim. I took aim, focused and started shooting. The spinning motor drive, on my Nikon, sounded like the rapid fire of an M-16 assault rifle. As I exposed her to film she started screaming as if she was being hit with full metal jackets. To my right I heard the response to her death cries. It sounded like a thousand people; a full troop of reinforcements running up the same creaky stairs that I had just took my walk of shame on. Like I said, my daddy did not raise a fool. My valor, honor and pride dissipated along with my ego and I turned and ducked out the door using urban escape and evasion tactics learned in the Army. Quickly I lost myself amongst the human river of tourist, crooks and geeks that walk the streets of Soho.