The Money Clip

It’s August, 1992.

About a month after my sisters and I laid my mother to rest next to my father at Arlington National Cemetery, I met a group of my best friends - relationships forged at the Today show - for drinks at a downtown NYC bar at the pier.

I don’t remember the name of the place, but it probably went belly up decades ago.

What I do remember, however, is that it had an Amazonian jungle theme, that we sat outside, and that we had a direct line of sight to a nearby bungee jumping concession.

So, as we ate, drank and laughed, every ten minutes or so we’d be treated to a death-defying show. Some inebriated daredevil would climb up a hundred feet or so to the top of a rickety structure and - after some coaxing and signs of the cross - plummet toward the murky, polluted Hudson River below.

After watching four or five of these unhinged lunatics bounce up and down on a giant rubber band - and in one instance, lose the full contents of their stomach - our conversation turned to whether any of us had the cajones to try it.

I took myself out of the running immediately.

No chance.

For one thing, thanks to a malfunctioning parachute, my dad plummeted to his death when I was just six years old. And I had absolutely no interest in tempting fate.

And, actuarial tables, statistics and fates aside…

I was just a big pussy.

So trying to get me up there was a non-starter.

But I had absolutely no problem trying to cajole my buddy Phil Griffin into taking the plunge.

Phil, as most sane individuals would, initially resisted. So I threw a hundred dollars on the table.

His answer was still no.

But my ante-inducement had started something. All of a sudden, our table turned into a scene from Rounders.

Everybody wanted in on the action.

Trish Peters matched my hundred. So did Janice DeRosa. And Jim Ackerman. MaryAlice O’Rourke only had $50 on her, but after we told her we’d cover her, she joined our polymarket too.

This was the 90s. No venmo or zelle. Cash was still a thing, and there was five hundred dollars of it - mostly in tens and twenties - now piled in the middle of the table. Right next to the guacamole and chips.

And now things were getting interesting.

We could see the gears grinding in Phil’s semi-buzzed brain. He was actually thinking about it, weighing the pros and cons, We could tell by his hedging that the cons were winning in the prefrontal cortex of his frontal lobe.

Clearly, Phil needed a push.

So we ordered him another mojito - hoping a little liquid courage might sway him to the fun side of the fence.

It didn’t.

Neither the rum, sugar cane swizzle stick nor the extra hundred we’d now scraped together and added to the pot could convince him to take the plunge.

So we had to make do with watching strangers bounce up and down and puke until our check came.

(Side note: Our server was more than a little disappointed when she realized the six hundred bucks in the middle of the table wasn’t for her. )

We all hugged, kissed, said our good nights and scattered to different parts of the city.

Phil and I were both Upper West Siders, so we caught a cab together.

TODAY BROS

Phil and I went way back.

He’d joined Today a few months after I did, and our executive producer, Steve Friedman, had asked me to show him the writer/producer ropes. He was a quick study, we became fast friends, and he seamlessly became part of the tight little tribe we’d formed on the third floor of 30 Rock.

Our paths diverged when I left Today in ‘90. Phil stayed, worked his way up the ranks, eventually moved to NBC Nightly News, covered a war in the Middle East, and became one of Tom Brokaw’s most trusted producers.

He was ascendant.

I, on the other hand, was not. I was now freelancing, writing my ass off and trying to make it as a sitcom guy or screenwriter.

Besides our common NBC roots, Phil and I had something else in common on that humid August night as we travelled uptown.

That night, we shared a special bond.

He and I had both lost our mothers to cancer within weeks of each other.

And we were both destroyed by it.

HEADS NOT ON A SWIVEL

So as we walked across 81st Street between Columbus and Amsterdam, we were deep in conversation about the moms we each adored. And for a split second - just a split second - we abandoned all of the street smarts we’d accumulated through our years living in New York City.

We let our guards down.

On most streets on the upper west side, you can see from avenue to avenue.

But 81^st Street is an anomaly. There’s a hump in the road which peaks about half way between Columbus and Amsterdam. It creates a true blind spot. The kind of spot where someone could wait for you on the other side, and you wouldn’t see them.

And we didn’t. There were two of them.

Out of nowhere - a gun in my ribs. And one in Phil’s.

The pair had us pinned against a wrought-iron fence in front of a brownstone.

Give us your money. Now.

They weren’t messing around.

Phil calmly handed over his wallet, Okay, here it is. Take it. Just don’t shoot.

I fished in my pocket and reluctantly handed over my money clip.

The sixty-three dollars was inconsequential..

But the money clip? It was the last gift my mother ever gave me.

The dastardly duo of dickhead douchebags casually walked away from us and then - with breathtaking audacity and nonchalance - walked into the street and hailed a cab.

With my money clip!

Something in me snapped. I wasn’t about to let them get away with this.

I ran into the street waving my arms wildly, screaming to the cabbie Don’t pick them up. They robbed me. They have guns.

He saw enough of me in his rearview mirror to know something was off, so he sped away, stranding Butch and Sundance without a taxi.

And I began the chase.

Through my mojito-infused haze, I had a solid strategy. I would stay half a block behind them, always keeping them in my sights as I called out for help.

If at any point they decided to wheel around and fire a shot at me, I’d simply execute a perfect Quinn Martin-style tuck-and-roll. Like Mannix, Banacek or Rockford would.

That’s some solid judgment right there.

One block north of us - on 82^nd Street - was a police station. That’s where Phil went. To get the cops.

I took the more idiotic route - pursuing two armed muggers.

They made a left on Columbus, heading north against traffic, with me close behind continuing my shpiel: They have a gun! They robbed me!

I was definitely disrupting their plan. None of the hundreds of available cabs heading stopped for them. So far, so good.

But for a brief moment, blinded by the oncoming headlights, I lost sight of them. Damn it.

But a pedestrian - a guy walking a tiny apartment dog - called out to me, They went that way.

I spotted them again, and headed after them, as they made a right on 82nd Street, heading toward Central Park. CPW was only one avenue away. If they made it to the park, they’d disappear into the darkness and I’d lose them forever. Along with the money clip mom had given me.

I was boiling with rage - yelling and cursing - as I approached my own building, the Alden, on the corner of 82nd and Central Park West.

Eight floors above, my wife Yvonne slept peacefully, completely unaware that her insane husband had completely lost his shit and was chasing armed felons through the streets of Manhattan.

HELP FROM ABOVE

I got to the corner of 82^nd and CPW, looked around, and didn’t see the robbers.

I’d lost them again and was ready to explode in anger.

But then, out of the blue - and I swear this is true - the most surreal, most inexplicable thing happened.

A stranger - a nondescript stranger- appeared at my side, and took my arm. Instantaneously - I was bathed in a complete blanket of calm.

All my overly hyped up emotions vanished. I wasn’t consumed with bravery, fearlessness or anger anymore.

I was just…perfectly calm. Peaceful. All my hatred and adrenaline dissipated in a nanosecond.

There he is, the stranger said quietly. Let’s go get him.

I looked in the direction he was pointing, and couldn’t believe my eyes.

The shmuck who’d robbed me was standing on the median at the 81st Street transverse. This is the road that cuts through the park and connects the West Side to the East Side. It’s the quickest route from across town. It would’ve been easy for him to just jump into the park and be gone. But for some inexplicable reason, he wasn’t.

He was just standing there. Frozen in place, paralyzed, unable to move.

Let’s go get him. The stranger, still holding my arm, walked me in his direction. He still didn’t budge.

Before we reached him, an off-duty undercover cop who’d heard me screaming, ascended the subway steps and greeted us.

He flashed his badge, identified himself, and asked me what was going on.

I explained what had happened, and told him the robber probably had my money clip in his pocket.

How’d you find him?

I chased him for a few blocks, got to the corner and then this guy pointed out to me that he was standing over there.

What guy?…the cop asked.

Him! I looked to my right.

The man who grabbed my arm and instilled in me an instant calm was nowhere to be found. He was just - gone.

Nobody else saw him either. Ever. Not the cop, and not the crowd that formed to see what all the hubbub was about.

But I did. I know I did. I felt him.

The cop told me to stand back, and I obliged.

I called to him to check his pockets. Which he did. Bingo - my money clip, as predicted.

The cop slapped cuffs and read rights.

A squad car from Manhattan’s 20^th Precinct pulled up and Phil got out with a couple of officers. I appreciated Phil’s level-headed effort to get actual qualified, professional help, if not necessarily his timing.

As for robber number two…

During questioning, my robber rolled over on Phil’s robber and he was arrested the next day. No honor among thieves, I guess.

Both were convicted and, due to pretty lengthy rap sheets, were sent away for a long stretch.

We had to wait until the conclusion of the trial, but we got everything back. Phil’s wallet.

And my money clip!

15 MINUTES OF FAME

A couple of weeks later, on September 3, Bob Herbert had a column in the New York Daily News.

In it, Herbert detailed the robbery, my pursuit of the felons, the hero cabbie and the New Yorkers who joined in.

Herbert did not mention the stranger, which I told him about.

Guess I can’t blame him. I mean who’d believe it anyway?

Well, I hope you will.

Because it happened exactly as I just detailed.

And I’m absolutely sure that in some metaphysical, hard-to-fathom way, the stranger was some sort of guardian angel sent to protect me.

You will never convince me otherwise.

This story might have had an entirely different ending, if not for a little help from my mother.

Who, it turned out, was not entirely gone.