The Weird Thieves, part II

It is Monday in Valencia, Spain (03/19) and I am walking along the river, which is actually a dry river that has been turned into a massive city park. As a byproduct of getting lost, I am hungry, thirsty, and sweaty. My main focus has become on remedying all my most pressing ailments by finding a vegetarian restaurant I had heard about.

Two guys are walking towards me and say something in Spanish.

“Lo siento, no hablo español.”

They look a little sketchy: the guy who hasn’t said anything looks like he’s been in a fight from his black eye and scabs on his forehead and nose.

The other guy starts talking in broken English and I think starts asking me if I’m from Argentina, which is bewildering since I just said I spoke no Spanish. I just want a sandwich.

“Do you know what time it is,” he presses on.

I stop. We’re now 15 feet or so apart.

“Uh, it’s four–cuatro–y, um, cuarenta dos?”

“Ah, ah. Okay.”

Then the same guy starts talking more broken English about Zidane and pointing over to the barrio; apparently he’s in town. To jog my memory of who Zidane is, he comes over, puts his arm around me, and puts his leg in between mine. He brings it up real close to my testicles in a re-enactment of Zidane kneeing some guy in the balls, which even I know he didn’t do. Instantly, though, my primary focus becomes protecting my crotch.

“Te gusta? Te gusta! Te gusta!”

Alright, I know a little bit of Spanish and, no, I don’t like your knee so close to my nuts. Thanks.

“Yes, yes. Zidane, Zidane.”

He lets go and I infer that I´ll be on the lookout for Zidane. I turn back to restaurant and, because I´m neurotic, feel my pockets. I have no wallet.

Could it have fallen out while I was sitting earlier? Maybe, but I check my pockets constantly.

These motherfuckers took my wallet by getting me to worry about my nuts. Damnit. I turn around.

“Hey! Did you take my wallet? Did you take my wallet?”
We’re now right by each other once again.
“Wallet? No, no…”
“Did you take my wallet?”
They start taking stuff out of their pockets.
“Please, give me my wallet.”
I start taking out change from my other pocket and hold it out.
“Please, give me my wallet.”
Denial
“Please. Give. Me. My. Wallet.”

***

Months ago on TrueHoop, I read about how Allen Iverson–graciously listed at 6 feet tall–is consistently one of the leading scorers in the NBA, where he does battle against giants every night. It started with him learning to visualize tying his shoes and then doing it. This progressed to him visualizing how to break apart defenses and making baskets, and then actually doing it.

This was interesting for a couple of reasons, but mostly because it basically meant Allen Iverson was a superhero. I tried to haphazardly institute his scary-resolve to become better at climbing over walls at the police playground in Austin. Since I’m not very intense or much of a competitor, no amazing feats were achieved.

During the 20 seconds of me trying to lobby for my wallet back, though, it was a different story. I knew that there were two of them and one me. I knew I was smaller. I know that I’m not strong.

But I also knew that I would beat their asses. I would grab the guy’s right arm with my left that I was closest to and punch him in his left eye. My hand, trained from years of inexperience would instantly sting and my stomach would grow queasy. I would draw my arm back and clench my hand into a fist just in time to strike the taller but lankier guy square in his nose. His scabs would re-open and blood would run from inside and down to the top of his lip.

I could feel it. Two more seconds and it’s going to happen exactly as I see it. My eyes burned.

“Please. Give me my wallet.”

And with that, the man who had just stolen from me sheepishly furnished my wallet from his jacket pocket.