I was mugged three times on the subway. I wonder if that's a record. Three times, to one guy, in one summer? Nah, it's very hard to set records in this town. There's probably some guy walking around out there who's got six or seven under his belt. Maybe someone picked up four over a long weekend. Still, I'm proud of my three. They make up my New York City Scary Survival Story, a story which I'll admit I've used shamelessly to impress impressionable suburbanites who think the subway is a festering, lawless, criminal underworld and who wouldn't go down there for anything less than love or money. It's a story however whose details change with each telling, simply because there were very few details to work with in the first place. I've had to invent the gunpoint, and the eight-inch blade, and the five of them, and the grappling, and the struggling, and all that kind of stuff. For effect you know. What can I say? It's bullshitic license.

I blame my girlfriend for the muggings. Well, my ex-girlfriend that is, for this was five years ago, and we've both moved on since. I lived in the Bronx then and she lived in Queens, and together we socialized on Houston and Bleeker and Lafayette, and a bunch of other places south of 14th Street and north of Chinatown. We were both drinkers at the time, and after drinking in the city bars, we'd head back to Queens and have one or two more in The Copper Jug before walking the nine blocks to her place. You'd think that nine blocks wouldn't give a couple much of a chance to get into a heated argument, but we seemed to manage it, and on a fairly consistent basis, too. She had a way of driving me nuts like nobody else. At the best of times, we couldn't agree. Any situation was ripe for our radically different interpretations. We once had a row over Cadbury's chocolate, for God's sake.

Of course I always thought I was in the right. I remember one of those nights when I told her that she had fine big hips. And I meant it. I liked the way her hips looked under one of those long summer dresses that she was fond of wearing. But before I knew it, those "fine big hips" out of my mouth became "You're telling me I'm fat - you're always saying I'm fat" out of hers, and then the mounting frustration and anger made each of us take a hand at stirring up that great big hornet's nest of old slights and grievances that was always suspended just above us; and the row was on. The later the hour, the more prone we were to rowing. I think she always expected me to back down and apologize because she knew how much I desired her, especially after a few drinks. And I did back down on a good few occasions. But not all. I had some pride every now and then. If the argument got too bizarre, I would take off, leaving her standing there on the sidewalk, waiting for me to turn around and come back like a submissive dog, and when it looked like I wasn't going to, she would call out "Mike! Mike! Come back!" in that reserved way of hers because she didn't want to wake the neighbors, but there was no stopping me at that stage. My masochistic tendencies are well known. I would arrive then in a great huff at Lowry Street for the 7 train to Manhattan, but I often had to sit and seethe there for what seemed like forever because, when it's three or four in the morning, trains are always on the other track, going the other way. This waiting allowed regret and desire to catch up with me, and assail me, and insist that I run back to her. But I never did run back to her.

At Grand Central there was more waiting to be done before the 4 train came to take me to Mosholu Parkway in the Bronx. On the 4, I, along with most of the other nightriders, liked to travel at the center of the train, preferably in the car where the conductor had his booth. There were safety in numbers. As you moved away from the center toward front and rear, passenger numbers decreased but the levels of naivety, bravery, or criminality most likely increased. I suspected there was a heavy criminal element in the last car, but I never went back there to find out. As we headed uptown, we lost passengers at every stop, and by the time we passed Mt. Eden Avenue, I sometimes had the car to myself. Ordinarily, one likes to be alone, but not in this situation. Not that I was scared or anything. I'm a coward sober, but after a few drinks, I could be some sort of alternative poster boy for bravery (or stupidity).

I usually liked to stand with my back resting against that door sign that said, "Do not lean against the doors," so that I could keep an eye on proceedings. The temptation to sit had to be resisted, for I knew that if I sat, the charms of the subway rocking would have eased me in to sleep, and I was aware of the dangers of sleeping on a subway late at night. But we fool ourselves on a regular basis. I would tell myself that there would be no harm in sitting for a few minutes - just a few - and promise that I would definitely - most definitely - stay awake. And you do try your best. You sit forward with your elbows resting on your knees so that you don't get too comfortable. You talk to yourself and make faces at yourself in the window opposite. But if you lean back and rest against the seat, you're gone. There is no beating sleep in this position, and when it beats you, you are then at the mercy of the robbers. You can be lucky of course. I remember the conductor waking me one night and telling me that I was being watched. I looked around at the other faces in the car, but I couldn't distinguish the predator. I suppose I was looking for those tell tale signs such as facial scars, a bum leg, or a pirate-like shifty eye, but as far as I was concerned, we all looked alike at that hour of the morning. The first time I was actually mugged, the robber (I presume they act alone for this job) cut my back pocket with some sort of sharp instrument while I slept, and extracted my wallet. I think I was in the Apollo Diner on Gun Hill road ordering a double egg and sausage on a roll to go before I realized that it was gone. Thankfully, I was able to spare myself even more embarrassment by making up the price of the sandwich from the change in my front pockets. The worst thing about the wallet going was that my greencard went with it. I knew I would have to go down town to the INS building and get re-fingerprinted and re-photographed and re-processed, and I knew it would cost me several hundred bucks, not to talk of the aggravation and the wasted time. But I had something going for me. A procrastinator of long standing, I kept putting off going to the INS. Two weeks went by without me stirring. And then, a very unusual thing happened. A large brown envelope with no return address arrived in my mailbox, and inside that envelope, hugging one or the corners, was my previously stolen wallet. And inside that was my greencard. Shock! Relief! Delight! Obviously the money was gone. I guess some good Samaritan picked up the wallet after the thief had discarded it, and seeing my address in there, must have sent it on. Or maybe the thief had a change of heart.

You'd think I'd have learned from the first mugging, but no. The second time, he didn't even have to use a blade. I was so out of it that he was able to tilt me over on the seat and take the wallet from my back pocket without cutting a thread. There's no other way he could have done it. I wonder, was I drooling while leaning over like that? I wonder, was he disgusted with me? If he takes any pride at all in his work, if he considers himself an artist - an artist of the blade - then I was the worst sort of subject. There was no challenge. With a normal sleeper the robber has to keep an eye out for the conductor or a cop or another passenger who might happen to enter the carriage, while at the same time keep a steady hand, yet working fast, and anticipating those particularly jarring subway bends that could wake the subject. But with me, he could have been as sloppy and lazy as he wanted to be. He probably counted the cash right there in front of me and then sauntered off with an arrogant sneer. Maybe two or three robbers haggled over me. I can only imagine the conversation:

Robber 1: "He's mine! I have cars seven through eleven tonight."

Robber 2: "Ya, but this is car twelve if you count from the front and I have twelve through fifteen."

Robber 3: "I'm not in the union so I can work where ever the hell I like. I have as much right to him as you."

But Robber 2, the biggest and meanest of the three wins out, "Listen boys, take a hike. He's in my car and that's the end of it. Anyway, look at him! A bum like that is a waste of time."

When I woke, my wallet was on the seat beside me. The money was gone, but the greencard had survived again. This mugging did teach me a lesson though. It taught me that my girlfriend was hazardous to my health, or at least my finances. And as I didn't have the will then to break up with her, I decided that I would leave my wallet at home in future. I thought the muggers wouldn't bother with me when I didn't have it.

One of the more annoying things about sleeping on the subway is that you invariably miss your stop. It's very depressing to wake and find yourself down around Astor Place and heading south when you know you got on at Grand Central about two hours before, heading north. I woke this Sunday morning just before Yankee Stadium. I knew immediately that I had been riding around for a while because it was now bright morning, whereas when I got on, it was dark night. People were on their way to their Sunday jobs. When I looked at them I noticed that they were all looking back at me. There's nothing unusual in someone eyeballing you, but when it's an entire row you start to think there is something wrong; is my bald spot that noticeable, are my ears sticking out?

When the conductor announced that it was a downtown 4, I knew I had to get off and cross to the other side and wait for another train going north. I was feeling terrible; my whole body cried out for water, aspirins, a bed. But I was about to feel even worse. It was only when I went to get up that I understood why they were staring; my jeans had been carved open, taking in both front pockets. Santa and his reindeer were smiling through from the legs of my boxers. The money was gone again. I knew people were saying to themselves, "Idiot, that'll teach you not to sleep on the subway." Others were probably saying, "That guy must have only one pair of jocksReindeer in the middle of summer?" The older women were most likely sympathetic. That was the last straw for me. Having to get on another train with my pants all ripped open and everyone knowing that I had screwed up, and having to walk the ten blocks from the train to my apartment with people staring at me, and having to walk by my neighbors and their questions, it was just too much. I swore I would never let it happen again. For the remainder of the summer, and well into the autumn, I worked hard at being the submissive dog. And then, I think it was around Veteran's Day, and in the garden at the back of the Wooden Anchor, I met Catherine - my sweet Catherine - and from that day to this, I've done all my sleeping in a plain old bed.

Michael Kearney was born in Ireland and came to the US in 1992. He earned a B.A. in Political Science. He's held jobs in the construction and information techology industries.