I Still Have My Computer

“Why you want know my name?” the guy who had stooped down next to me and started chatting with me asked me in broken English. He was young, about my age. Caucasian, not exactly fat, but certainly not skinny. He wore blue jeans, a blue Puma brand sweatshirt, and nice shoes. He didn’t look like a needy person, physically speaking.
“Okay, don’t tell me,” I said. Geez, it seemed like a fair enough question. I knew Spaniards weren’t exactly friendly to strangers but, wow, this is strange.
It was a beautiful day. It was about 1:50pm (Madrid time). I was sitting on the ground on top of the “mountain” in the park behind the YWAM base thinking about the class we had just had and writing a few thoughts on my laptop. The class had been about the cross of Christ. The class was really good. In fact, I actually cried in it. (In case you don’t know, I don’t cry often, but thinking of the cross does occasionally bring tears to my eyes. This happened when the teacher was talking about the meaning of the last words of Christ, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken Me?”)
“I want money,” the young man said.
Ah, yes of course, he’s robbing me!
“Sorry, I don’t even have a cent on me right now,” I said, truthfully.
“Oh, I sorry,” he responded, pointing to my laptop. “I going to have to take dat, den.”
I laughed nervously. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“No, give it to me.”
“Why should I?”
“If you not give me dat, I punk you.”
Okay, good. He doesn’t have any weapons.
“You’re going to punch me, are you?” I asked, standing up. He stood up also. He came up to about my shoulders. What a sad theft attempt. He’s alone, unarmed, smaller than me. Poor rich kid.
“Take off your glasses,” he tells me. “I not want dem break.” I took off my glasses cautiously watching him. He didn’t hit me. The act reminded me of Inigo Montoya, the Spanish fencing prodigy in the Princess Bride, when he helped the man in the black to get to the top of the cliff and even waited for him to clean out his shoes before attacking him.
“Okay, hit me,” he said.
Isn’t that your job? I thought. “Uhhh, no,” I said aloud. "I'm not going to hit you."
“Hit me, hit me,” he insisted.
“No,” I said. “Hold on a sec. I’m going to put the computer in the bag so we don’t break it while we’re fighting.” I kneeled down and put the computer in my backpackThen I stood back up, ready to fight or flee. We looked at each other. Then he looked behind me squinting.
“F***ing police!” he muttered. He repeated his interjection once or twice and slowly began to walk away. I looked around. I didn’t see anything.
“Thanks, Lord,” I said and walked back home for lunch.