Crime is the background noise to life in DC. Less an act of God than a certainty of time, it’s thought of much like illness: You expect that it will happen. The question is when, and how bad it will be. In my direct friend group, about half have been mugged. Some had business-like, even slightly whimsical transactions. “Pleasure doing business with ya,” the mugger said. One was severely beaten. Another had a knife held to her throat. Another had a gun shoved against the back of his head. And Brian was shot. Three times.
On the other hand, things are getting better. In 1991, DC’s homicide rate was 81 per 100,000 residents — the highest in the country. In 2006, it was 29.1 per 100,000 residents, the lowest rate since the 80s. But it sure doesn’t feel safe. Some days, you finish keeping watch on your hospitalized friend and decide to get a drink. Sitting at the bar, you see police lights reflected in the glass. The ice cream shop across the street was just hit by armed robbers. Of course it was. Happened a few years ago, too. You laugh with your friends about it being the unluckiest ice cream shop in town (“What? Did the candy story have too complicated a lock?”), and then start talking about the new frozen yogurt place that opened up in Dupont. About time we had one of those, you say. Crime has become a conversational bridge, like talk of the weather or traffic.
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If you’re looking for ideas, here’s my suggestion: Brian will probably be laid out on the couch for a bit, and the boy does love horror movies. About three nights out of five, I’ll come downstairs in the morning and find that Brian fell asleep on the sofa watching reruns of The Hills Have Eyes, or some other movie about the Thing that came from the Place. So I’d go in that direction.