by Alonso Tejeda
Sunday, November 2, 2003
I was less than a mile from home, cruising in the bike lane between 20-25 mph, when I spotted a kid with a black bandana covering his face and a pumpkin on his head. I couldn’t make out what he was saying as he danced some weird dance on the sidewalk. Just as I passed, he threw something at me, and what felt like a golf ball-sized rock crashed into the back of my right shoulder. As I hit the brakes, locking up the wheels and skidding, I noticed his accomplice. He held a video camera. I realized immediately what they were doing. They were making their own Jackass video.
I whipped the bike around and started my chase on Pumpkinhead. I closed the gap quickly and, passing Cameraboy, saw I was still being videotaped. Pumpkinhead had jumped up on a retaining wall in a feeble attempt to hide behind some bushes. I vaulted off the bike and up to where he stood, no longer wearing his homemade Halloween disguise. He jumped down, joined up with his friend, and they began to run away laughing, temporarily oblivious to the reality of bicycle-assisted speed.
They turned right into a neighborhood and were out of my sight for just a couple of seconds. Quickly pedaling up to speed, I reached the cul-de-sac and saw that they had stopped running. I rode straight for the kid with the video camera, resisting the urge to run him down with my steel-frame mountain bike. He was still videotaping me! “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!” he taunted. I stopped right in front of him. “Tell it to the cops – I’m calling right now.” The kid who had hit me looked scared. Approaching, he pleaded, “Sir, please don’t call the police.” I looked at him and said, “Sit the f&*# down right there.” He didn’t do it. I repeated, “Sit the f&#* down right there until the cops get here!” He reached into his pockets, “Do you want money? I’ll give you money…please don’t call the cops.” I ignored him.
The dispatcher was rather insistent about sending medical services, but I demurred, more angry than injured. Still, my right shoulder hurt pretty bad. The rock-thrower entered a house and his friend followed, still laughing. I gave the dispatcher the address and their descriptions. Do not confront them, she instructed; wait outside until the police show up.
The boy who had thrown the rock came outside and sat on a porch swing, looking very scared and very serious. He said he was sorry. The mother came outside and asked what happened. “Your son threw a rock at me while I was riding my bike.” The boy said, “It wasn’t a rock, it was a piece of candy.” She looked at her son and asked, “Why would you do something like that? Did you say you were sorry?” The boy said, “Yes, I did.” The woman looked at me and said she was sorry. They both went back into the house and I could hear the mother yelling at the boy. You are never playing with that video camera again and you are grounded! An older woman came outside, presumably the grandmother. The other boy came out and sat on the swing. She asked, “Why did you do this? Don’t you know how dangerous this is?” I said to her, “They were doing something they watch on TV.” He said, “Yeah, we were making a Jackass video.” The woman asked, “Do you think this is funny?” The kid said, “No.” I said, “You were still laughing when you went into the house.” “No I wasn’t.” “Yes you were.”
Candyman and his mother came outside. Both boys sat on the swing. The mother assured me her son would never do anything like this again. She had a pad paper and a pen, and wanted to know who I was. I told her I was not going to give her any information; she could get in from the police if deemed appropriate. She looked confused and yelled at the boys to get back in the house. They all went inside.
I paced the street, in front of a house of strangers: three generations in a minor crisis. I called home, where my wife and twin 13-month-old sons waited, along with my visiting parents. How will I protect my family from the jackasses of the world?
Candyman and his mother came out again. Apology had given way to anger, now directed at me. She started yelling, saying she watched the tape and she could not believe that I chased down her son after he threw “a little piece of candy” at me. I told her it felt like a rock. She said it was a just a piece of Butterfinger, and I had no right to chase down the boy like that. The boy said, “It was just an M&M.” (Hmm, an M&M that put a 2 1/2 inch welt on my shoulder!) I told her that when the police get here and view the tape, they can decide if I did anything wrong. The mother said, “I erased the tape.” I said, “That’s okay; you can explain to the police why you did that.” She then looked confused and angrily went back into her house.
I called 911 again. Please send a police officer immediately because the boy’s mother is yelling at me now. All police officers in the area are on other calls, but you’re next on their priority list. I feel unsafe, could you please have them hurry up? She asked if I lived close by. Yes. She asked for my address and told me to go home; the police officer would come to my house.
I put my helmet back on and remounted my bike. Candyman said I couldn’t leave. One of three little girls who had been hanging around said I could not leave the scene of a crime. Candyman said, “It wasn’t a crime.” Ignoring them all, I went home.
I called my brother, a Public Defender with experience in the juvenile court system, and told him my story. I told him I was concerned the irate mother might try to file charges against me. He asked if I touched either boy. No. He asked if I made any verbal threats such as, “I’m going to kill you.” No. Then I had nothing to worry about.
Within an hour a police officer arrived at my home. I told him my story and he said that I had behaved properly. Because he was not a witness, he could only assist me in filing charges, if I chose to do so. The juvenile would be charged with a misdemeanor battery. He said it was basically “a lot of paperwork” and would entail spending at least half a day at juvenile court. We agreed that he would visit the boy and parents and, depending on their reaction and behavior, decide how to proceed.
Not a half-hour passed before he called. The officer had explained to the boy that he could be taken to juvenile hall right then and charged with battery. He gave the boy this scenario: if, after hurling an object at me, I had fallen off my bike and into traffic, where I could have been hit by a car and killed; he would be charged with manslaughter, and then be facing prison for a very long time. The officer said the boy seemed remorseful, and the parents appeared to be very concerned. Based on his assessment, I told him I was willing to let the matter go, and thanked him for his time and effort.
I hope that these boys are truly remorseful. I hope that Candyman does get grounded. I hope the officer put the fear of God into them. I hope that they learn to “change the channel.” Because even though I can change the channel, my boys still have to grow up in a world where others do not.
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