A Brief History of Violence

The world gained four new and probably unwitting Nabokov scholars at 10:30 last night, when, amid my walk home from teaching my grad class, I got roughed up a little and had my backpack stolen by a noticeably bored-looking foursome. Aside from a sore jaw, where the first guy hit me before I dropped to the ground, I assure you all that I am absolutely fine—literally, not a scratch on me, and none of the punches or kicks (of which there really weren't many, as these things go) were anywhere near my face, ribs, teeth, whatever. I walk home on one of the best-lit and most-traveled streets in Hartford, and as soon as I relinquished my backpack, all four guys were gone, not even 15 seconds after the incident began. I was home within minutes, and well taken care of by the cops who logged the case and by the friend who took me to the emergency room, where we quickly decided the promised 3-hour wait (and this beginning at 1:15am!) wasn't really worth it. So far, I'm not even bruised anywhere, though I'll keep you updated about any late-breaking iridescence, if it comes in any particularly cool colors. I might still go to a Convenient Care drop-in center today to make sure my jaw is just sore and not actually damaged or dislocated—which I really, truly don't think that it is, since I'm in no pain whatsoever—but otherwise, case closed.

If you're reading this and know my family, please don't mention any of this yet, since I haven't had a chance to let them know; I'm posting this now because news travels nowhere faster than among blog-friends, and I didn't want to alarm anyone who reads Tim R's typically kind and compassionate remarks in his Comments section, following what had already been a supremely generous and chummy post.

As for the pirates' haul: I doubt that my paperback of Lolita, Harold Bloom's critical anthology concerning same, and Frank Bidart's Desire can possibly be what they had in mind, as was confirmed by the spat-out "We don't want this shit!" overheard from a block away, after the first disappointed rummage through my knapsack. Small comfort: any roving bands of high-school-age street thugs overheard spouting "The Second Hour of the Night" will hereby render themselves unduly suspicious, not to mention remarkably erudite. What they're doing with the glasses they knocked off my face I can only imagine, and presumably, they got a little happier when/if they discovered the brand-new digital camera in the pen pouch, making my new headshot at the top of this blog a very, very limited edition. Nothing turned up along the walk back to work this morning except two pens and my dirt-smeared papaya lip-balm; when I didn't find anything in the nearest, fullest public trash can, I was (perversely) almost as disappointed to have what I considered a very savvy forensic instinct unrewarded as I was not to find my stuff. And obviously, compared to having my health, teeth, wallet, keys, etc., what got taken ain't diddly. Now that I've filed all the requisite reports, I'll happily rack it up to Just One Of Those Things... except for the fact that clearly, taxes aside, I get to do whatever the f*** I want this weekend.