More than 24 hours after I discovered my left pocket had been emptied on the metro, it was still surreal. I was already trying to make light of the incident, but I couldn't lie to myself. I was lucky though -- the pocket that my hand protected had my wallet. The keys in the other pocket were safe, and so was the phone, except it was in someone else's pocket now.
The someone I couldn't recognize. Someone who could have passed it on to someone else, and then someone else, as part of a syndicate that pickpockets unsuspecting commuters in Mexico City's dense metro network. Who was I to ask anyway? The faces I scanned at helplessly in the train stared back blankly, as if to say, 'You've finally realized what happened'.
Disbelief turned to shock, as I began to palpitate. I had to get away from the metro. Run, I told myself. But what was I running away from? Another hit? Reality? Or run towards some way of recovering what had been lost? But in a city of over 20 million, where does one begin?
By the end of the night, I had a replacement phone. I had re-established contact with people. The shock, considering it was the first time something like that had happened, had ebbed away. But I was still bothered, and I couldn't decide what was causing the unease: the loss of the phone, or my temporary loss in faith in people? What makes someone do something like this? How is stealing OK? I couldn't understand it then, I can't understand it now.
Days before the incident, a friend of mine joked that he would steal my phone, because of its camera. Maybe he should have.
The someone I couldn't recognize. Someone who could have passed it on to someone else, and then someone else, as part of a syndicate that pickpockets unsuspecting commuters in Mexico City's dense metro network. Who was I to ask anyway? The faces I scanned at helplessly in the train stared back blankly, as if to say, 'You've finally realized what happened'.
Disbelief turned to shock, as I began to palpitate. I had to get away from the metro. Run, I told myself. But what was I running away from? Another hit? Reality? Or run towards some way of recovering what had been lost? But in a city of over 20 million, where does one begin?
By the end of the night, I had a replacement phone. I had re-established contact with people. The shock, considering it was the first time something like that had happened, had ebbed away. But I was still bothered, and I couldn't decide what was causing the unease: the loss of the phone, or my temporary loss in faith in people? What makes someone do something like this? How is stealing OK? I couldn't understand it then, I can't understand it now.
Days before the incident, a friend of mine joked that he would steal my phone, because of its camera. Maybe he should have.
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