LAist gets jacked; gets back

Warning: First Person Article.

I was sitting at Starbucks in South Pas today, working on my laptop, talking to a client, when the door burst open behind me and a guy reached over, grabbed my computer, and took off running.

I jumped up without thinking. Before I closed the cell phone I was screaming "stop motherfucker, motherfuckin thief!" running hell-for-metal in my Spanish boots after this guy in Nikes as he sprinted down the block into a residential neighborhood.

Now: A word about backing up your files. You should always back up your files. That's the word. Also, keeping clients' credit cards mingled with personal diaries on your machine means you keep it chained to your body at all times, which I do (I won't even leave it in my house when I go out to a club), and so having someone grab it from right in front of you is like having someone steal your livelihood, your future and your dirty laundry all at once.

The only thing going through my head was that I couldn't let him get out of my sight.

A few steps and another gangster came running out of Starbucks behind me, blue tattoos all up his neck. He was chasing me, and I was chasing my life, down a sunny residential street.

The guy with my laptop hit the corner; I was right behind him. There was a brand-new (SUV) parked there with two more shaved-headed cholos.

I was screaming, "Give it to me! I'll give you money!":

The guy behind me wanted into the car so they could take off. But he thought money sounded like a good idea. He said, "give us the money." I said, "I don't have any on me, but I'll get it." He got in, took the laptop from the guy who'd stolen it. "Give me the money and I'll get it back for you."

"Hey," someone in the car yelled, "this guy's a pussy."

The guy in the backseat started closing the door...I got my fingers in it...he was trying to slam it on my fingers and I kept it pried open.

Somehow, now, my hands had reached in and were on the laptop; we were struggling over it and it ended up in my possession.

I started backing away from the SUV.

The secondary man got out and stood covering the license plate. I held my hand up in front of my eyes and said, "I'm not looking."

The guy who initially stole my livelihood didn't think it was such a hot idea to let me get away. He jumped out and started chasing me, and then I started running.

He was right behind me, gaining, trying to trip me; I had two blocks ahead of me before there was even a chance of getting someone to help; I almost slipped on a branch; I'm a fucking geek running down a suburban street with a fucking laptop, screaming "HELP! POLICE!" being chased by scary ass gangsters.
It wasn't till later I realized I guess they coulda shot me, but it's good for them they didn't considering there were lots of witnesses. Still, I told the cops I wouldn't press charges and didn't want to file a report.

What the fuck. No one got hurt.

A chinese girl is sitting at Starbucks with her mouth hanging open as I go running by. She saw the whole thing. I say "call..........cops................"

But I learned a long time ago that people in this country never call the cops for anything. You could skin someone alive in the middle of Pershing Square and no one would call the cops.

Fuck it. I don't even like cops. Sure, the cops showed up, I talked to them, but couldn't or wouldn't describe the guys and couldn't or wouldn't give details. I figure, I'm lucky to be alive; why make a bad thing worse? I about had a heart attack; I haven't run that hard since Junior High (I believe the cops were chasing me then...caught me trespassing an abandoned house up on Mulholland...food for another article, I guess.) But hey: I work hard, and the only thing I ever stole was a pair of bowling shoes. I mostly think people are good and in spite of my paranoia, well, I just don't expect anarchy to bust out in the middle of my coffee. Then again, a neighbor told me (after I told him this story) that he'd seen two LAPD cops going through my garbage a few days ago. If that's true, and I know this is a stretch, but maybe they decided they wanted the private data on my laptop (my website gets more hits from the department of homeland security than from anywhere else, on account of my leftist/social libertarian leanings) and maybe they hired some thugs to grab it so as not to have to stage a raid that would bring the ACLU to my aid. Like I said, it's a stretch. But it did happen in my first novel, and things I write seem to come true. (No French Tobacco in America anymore? Jeb running for Pres in 2008? US invades Iran in Sep. 2006? I made that prediction in '04.)

And the thugs, well, they got away. Who knows where; who cares.

My blood got up. Total paranoia. I loaded the fuckin shotgun when I got home, waiting to be somehow tracked down. If there's respect now, then there's respect, and we're cool. I hope that can be the case. If these guys were filling a government contract then I have no beef with them; if they were just practicing some snatching then I just ask they respect my person and my private shit. I don't take it personal. And, y'know, thanks for not killing me; I hope you know I'd do the same, and not kill you either, if I was the one driving the brand-new SUV, instead of the piece of shit with no air conditioning and the cracked windshield. I don't really want to be friends, but hey, can't we all just get along?