and is reading a poetry magazine. “Say,” I say, “is

that some sort of poetry magazine?” “Yeah,” she says.

“I like Billy Collins,” I say.

“Yeah?” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “But don’t you think Poetry is Dead, kinda?”

“Not really,” she says, and she gives me facts and

figures and numbers to prove her point, which I have

since forgotten. Then she asks me if I’ve read

that John Ashberry article, you know,

the one in The New Yorker? “Oh yeah,” I say, “that

was a great article! I liked how at the end there was

a flashback to when he was young and struggling, for I

myself am young and struggling.” The woman smiles

and picks at her pea salad with the dill yogurt dressing

on top. Then we talk about Billy Collins some more,

and then this woman says, “You should read Elizabeth

Bishop.” “Okay,” I say, “yeah, I know her, but only when

she gets her stuff published in The New Yorker. Published

from purgatory, rather – she’s dead, right?” The woman

smiles and says, “You’re a bit of poet yourself, aren’t you?”

“Oh jeez,” I say, and my face blooms crimson, “I wish.

But I don’t know. I don’t really write poems. They’re

more like, I don’t know – maybe I’m a storyteller, really.

My lack of poetic skill is what keeps me from being a poet.

My similes are like…well…they’re like…they’re like, bad!

And my metaphors are…they are boulders of…of terribleness!

So no, I’m not a poet. I wish I were. Once I thought I was.

I won an award for poetry in college. It was called The Hopwood.

Ever heard of it? I went to Michigan. Yeah, uh, Go Blue!

But see, I wrote my prose when I was sober, during the day,

and my poetry at night, when I was drunk. And when my poetry

won…well, it was great for the ego, but not for the drinking!

Anyways. Enough about me. Are you done with your salad?”

She paid, smiled, and left.

“Who was that?” I asked my boss.

“That was Alice Quinn,” my boss replied, “she’s the Poetry

Editor at The New Yorker.” “Oh jeez,” I said, “I hope she’s

not mad because I said that part about how Poetry is Dead.”

“I doubt it,” my boss replied, which was confirmed that

weekend when The New York Times Book Review printed

a gushing review on its front page of a new book of

previously unpublished work by Elizabeth Bishop,

edited by Alice Quinn, who clearly has better things to

worry about then whether some stupid fucking waiter

thought Poetry was Dead, kinda.

I was removing two singles from the money clip when the first gentleman changed his mind and said instead of two he wanted twenty, no wait, all of it. He grabbed at my wallet and I hung on for a moment, my instincts in high gear, and struggled in vain to remember what to do in emergency situations:

-Stop, Drop, and Roll. Not applicable.

-Hide under the desks and wait for the all-clear signal. Also not applicable.

-Find the nearest adult. None in sight.

They didn’t have a blade, nor a gun, or at least not that I saw, but I also didn’t trust my self-defense training. The last karate class I took was in 4th grade, and I was actually asked not to return after I begged the instructors to teach us how to Wax On and Wax Off. Having only made it to orange belt, thirteen years ago, I decided this was not a fight I could win. So I let go of my wallet and the mugger took the money out and gave me back the rest, cards, license, and all. I thought this to be a most gentlemanly exchange until they began walking off with my phone.

“Wait,” I said, “Can I please have my phone?”

“You ain’t calling the cops, buddy,” the second man said, and they continued walking off with it.

“Please!” I shouted, warm streams beginning to pour down my cheeks as the shock of what just happened began to take hold. “I really need that phone! I have to call Condé Nast tomorrow! I’m going to try and get an internship at The New Yorker, and I can’t do that without my phone!” And then, long after they were out of earshot, I added, “If my parents call, please tell them that I was mugged but that I’m alright.” More tears.

I arrive home, and my roommates are in a stoned daze. Pot smoke hangs in the room like many jackets on a single coat rack.

“You guys, I was totally just mugged,” I say.

“Whoa, man,” my male roommate says, “Whoa.”

“Are you alright?” my female roommate asks.

“Yeah,” I say, “but I’m pretty pissed and also scared.”

“Whoa,” my male roommate adds, “I mean…whoa.”

I call 911. Now the anger inside is rising to a tumultuous pitch. I haven’t been this mad since they took “The Cosby Show” off the air.

“911, what’s the emergency?”

“The emergency,” I yell, “is that I was just fucking mugged!”

“Well whatchoo shouting at me for?! I didn’t do it!” the operator replies.

“I know,” I say, “I just…I’m a little upset right now…”

“Well calm down!”

“Okay,” I say, then add, “Sorry for yelling.”

Four cops arrive. They are, all of them, the living embodiment of an NYPD stereotype. These broad characters enter the scene and if I wasn’t so mad and freaked out I would have giggled with glee.

“So you say you were jumped?”

“Yes sir.”

“Where?”

“6th between B and C.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No.”

“So you weren’t really jumped, you were mugged, then.”

“Um, okay, I guess I was mugged then. Fine.”

“Uh-huh. So how come it smells like a party in here?”

“My roommates were getting high.”

“Uh-huh. And these muggers, did they take your weed?”

“I didn’t have any. I don’t smoke anymore cause it makes me paranoid.”

“Sure you don’t,” lead cop says snidely.

“Sam,” the second cop says to the leader, “this pot smoke is giving me the munchies.”

“So where you from,” the third cop asks, “Idaho?”

“Michigan.”

“Same difference. So what brought you here?”

I’m so tired of having to answer that question, of verbally stumbling as I try to define what I’m trying to do, sort-of-an-actor-that-doesn’t-act-because-now-writes-these-kind-of-story-things, that I simply reply, “I guess I just wanted to get mugged.”

“Well,” the third cop says, “Mission accomplished.”

The female cop, Irish Catholic all the way, pipes up: “This is a nice place you got. How much is your rent?”

“2700 for the three of us.”

“2700! Get outta town! That’s so much money! I pay 950 and I got my own place and it’s bigger than this.”

“Where is it?” I ask.

“Brooklyn,” she says, “And, I ain’t never been mugged, neither.”

Don’t they teach these cops sensitivity training, I wonder?

With nowhere else to turn, my male roommate and I go for drinks at a dive bar. A natural storyteller, I’m telling everyone about my nighttime encounter.

“That sucks,” the bartender says.

“Would you like a shot?” a customer asks me.

“Pardon me,” a gentlemen with an orange shotgun in his hand says, “I couldn’t help overhearing your tale of woe. I’m playing this video game right here where you pump this shotgun and shoot deer. I just wanted to offer my next turn, because I thought it might help you feel better if you shoot some deer.”

“Thank you, sir,” I reply, “that’s very kind of you. And I will take you up on your offer. I would like to shoot some deer. I would like that very much indeed.”

Walking home. We pass two black gentlemen. My body clenches. Am I going to turn into a full-blown racist because of this?

Maybe I should just go back home. Back home in the Plains, in the suburbs, where everyone looks like me and nothing ever happens. Who’s going to mug you in Michigan? The cows? No, not the cows. They haven’t learned the value of money yet, foolish cows, standing in the grass, chewing their cud, the cows, without a cow-care in the world. Maybe I should be a cow.

I lie in bed and make up a story. That the muggers saw me pass and the first one said to the other, “isn’t that…isn’t that autobiographical writer Josh Lefkowitz?!”

“He writes about what happens to him,” the second one reports.

“Let’s mug him,” the first one says, “That way, he’ll have something about which to write.”

The Good: I am alive, unhurt.

The Bad: I’m out $150 of hard-earned, wine-pouring money.

The Ugly: I can actually feel my plush Midwestern heart hardening into a cold, dense stone.

Walking on 78th Street between First and York, heading to the subway station after spending the weekend at my girlfriend’s place, I saw a torn piece of paper on a telephone pole. I leaned in to read the piece of paper. A queasy feeling came over me.

Missing: Green Parakeet! The sign described this person’s particular green pet parakeet. The joy that the parakeet brings to that person’s life. How the parakeet likes music. How it was a wonderful and loyal companion.

I kept reading the sign over and over again. Finally, when my shock began to subside, I sat down on a stoop and pulled out my cell phone. I dialed Michele’s number. “You won’t believe what I just saw,” I said when she picked up the phone. Earlier that day, when we finally made it outside after our usual Sunday sleep-in, Michele and I decided to take a walk. A burst of bright sunshine greeted us when we went outside. We took a moment to let our sleepy eyes adjust, and then headed East toward the FDR highway. There was a slight tension in the air. In recent weeks I had contemplated a job change. Finally after four and half years at the same company, and recent difficulties, I was beginning to go on interviews. It was a new experience for me and I was incredibly anxious. Michele was extremely pragmatic. She sympathized with my situation, but insisted I was doing the right thing and that with confidence and a determined outlook, I would escape a bad situation and discover a positive one.

So I was very pensive, gathering my thoughts and contemplating my next move. We got to the 78th Street overpass along the East River. Joggers, rollerbladers, and sunbathers were out en masse along the narrow path by the FDR. As we made our way down the stairs toward the path, I began to feel dizzy from the heat. My recent anxiety had eaten away at my appetite. I leaned against the rail for a moment and Michele asked if I was all right.

I said I was fine and suggested we lay out on the grass along the highway. We found a spot next to a small tree. Despite the proximity of the FDR, and the frantic sounds of cars speeding by, I was able to nap away my troubles. When I woke up, it seemed I had been asleep the entire afternoon. But it had only been a half-hour. I sat up and actually felt refreshed. For the moment, my troubles took a backseat to the gloriously sunny afternoon. We decided to move on and head toward the park. As Michele packed up her things, a flurry of green caught my eye.

I turned to look and was shocked to see it was a green bird (I was used to only seeing pidgeons along the highway.) It flew clumsily above my head and for an instant I lost it. It came around again and landed on the tree. “Check that out,” I said to Michele.

“Wow,” she said. “What is that, a bird?”

“I guess,” I said, sounding unsure even though I was quite positive it was a bird. Our conversation was stilted; we were mesmerized by this stranger in our neighborhood. Other than the fact that it was green, it was difficult to make out any more details. All we knew was that it looked exotic.

Suddenly the bird flew out of the tree, took a nose dive and flew back up again. We were silent as our eyes followed the bird’s meandering path. It took another nosedive, but this time it didn’t fly up again. This time it landed. In the middle of the FDR. “Oh shit,” we shouted. Before we could say another word, the bird started to take off, but was caught by the fender of a speeding car. The bird was tossed over the car and landed on the road again when another car hit it. And another.

We stood by helpless. By this point, there was little left of the bird and little that we could do. We paused for a moment, shocked at what we had seen. We looked around. Should we tell someone? But who would we tell? We walked toward the park in silence. I’m sure we were both thinking the same thing. What are the chances of seeing something like that occur? If it had been something more familiar, like a pigeon, perhaps we wouldn’t have been shocked. For the rest of the day, other than the occasional “I still can’t believe we saw that,” we didn’t discuss what happened.

That is, until that evening when I saw the flier on the telephone pole. We debated what to do, whether we should call the number on the flier or not. Maybe this wasn’t his bird, we said. But we realized that was probably impossible. How many green parakeets go missing on the Upper East Side? In the end, we decided to spare the owner the agony of knowing his pet’s fate. Our reasoning, whether wrong or right, was that maybe that person will hold onto a glimmer of hope that his green friend would fly through his window one day. Better that than sharing the gory details of its demise. I turned off my cell phone and continued toward the subway. Soon thoughts of that poor green bird were replaced by fears of an impending job search, joy of a serious relationship and satisfaction for living in such a unique city. But even now, almost a year later, I occasionally think of that bird’s last moments, and hope it cherished its brief brush with freedom in New York.

(The initial feeling, here on MBN’s Panel for the Ethical Treatments of Civilians, was that calling the Parakeet owner is the right thing to do. Generally speaking, people want to know what happened to the person/thing/pet they have lost.

What would you do? Call or not? Click here to answer.