Post by sciwriter on Jan 25, 2007 19:05:13 GMT -7
The culprits should be melted. Carl:
ttp://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/24/books/24grim.html?ei=5070&en=fc47a1116df1be21&ex=1170392400&emc=eta1&pagewanted=print
January 24, 2007
Books Of The Times
A Hostage Who Stayed a Few Steps Ahead
By WILLIAM GRIMES
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
A Memoir of Survival
By Stanley N. Alpert
On the night of Jan. 21, 1998, Stanley
N. Alpert was heading home in Greenwich Village with pleasant thoughts on his
mind. The next day he would turn 38. By chance, he had struck up a conversation
with an attractive woman on the subway, and it looked as if a date were in the
cards. As he walked, he mused, and as he mused, he failed to notice two armed
men closing in on him from behind. Before he knew it, he was in the back seat of
a new Lexus, about to experience the most terrifying 25 hours of his life.
"The Birthday Party" is Mr. Alpert's harrowing, often hilarious reconstruction
of what should have been a garden-variety New York street crime. He gives a
taut, hour-by-hour account of a simple robbery that became a kidnapping and
then, by a quirk of fate, a ghetto version of "The Ransom of Red Chief," as Mr.
Alpert, by all appearances Grade A victim material, turned into a colossal
headache for his captors. Precisely how this nebbishy Brooklyn boy, partial to
peach-flavored Snapple iced tea and chocolate chip cookies, induced reverse
Stockholm syndrome and maneuvered his way to freedom makes "The Birthday Party"
one of the most exhilarating, improbable New York stories ever told.
The original plan was simple: drive the victim to an A.T.M. and force him to
withdraw money. When Lucky, the gang's ringleader, discovered that Mr. Alpert
had $110,000 in his savings account, the plan changed. After a quick visit to
the A.T.M., Mr. Alpert found himself sitting blindfolded in an apartment
somewhere in Brooklyn, watched over by three armed men, three prostitutes
employed by Lucky and one very nervous landlord.
In the morning, Lucky informs him, he will be driven to his bank to withdraw
$50,000 that Lucky, in a telephone transaction, has shifted from savings to
checking. There is nothing to worry about, one captor insists: "You got your
fine education, your good job. It don't matter to you if I get your money.
You'll just make it again."
At this point it has not quite dawned on the gang exactly what Mr. Alpert meant
when he informed them that he was an assistant federal attorney and that they
might have made a small miscalculation in choosing him.
The ordeal of captivity is horrific yet ridiculous, like a demented episode of
MTV's "Real World." Mr. Alpert himself wavers between the two points of view.
All around him, a chaotic scene unfolds, as Ren and Sen, the two henchmen, play
with their guns, philosophize, smoke marijuana and have sex with the
prostitutes. Occasionally Lucky, attending to pressing business concerns in the
outside world, pops in to restore order and refine the crime plans.
Mr. Alpert concentrates, very hard, on exuding a cooperative spirit and winning
the sympathy of those around him, all the while filing away small bits of
information that will help convict everyone in the room if he ever gets out
alive.
There are many tense moments. Sen, without warning, begins raving, screaming out
sick, violent fantasies of murder and mayhem. "I remained frozen in sheer
terror, silent and unflinching, hoping he would not act," Mr. Alpert writes.
Gradually, he realizes that Sen is singing along to a Busta Rhymes rap on the
radio.
When the gang offers Mr. Alpert free sex with one of the women, he calculates
feverishly. A refusal might be interpreted as racism. On the other hand, the
loss of dignity might make him seem less sympathetic, easier to inflict pain on.
He says no, very politely.
Mr. Alpert and his captors inhabit different worlds. The men laugh at Mr.
Alpert's $49 Florsheim shoes. They examine his watch and ring with contempt.
They cannot understand why, at his age, he is not married with children. Mr.
Alpert tells them that his parents wonder the same thing. His money earns him a
measure of respect, and, as the hours drag on, Ren and Sen ask for free, much
appreciated legal advice.
A bond develops. "Yo, Stanley, you should join our gang," Sen tells him. "You
could recommend friends that we could kidnap." After a moment's reflection, Sen
amends his suggestion "Naw, I mean you could recommend your enemies for us to
kidnap." Mr. Alpert decides a cryptic smile is the best response.
Eventually Lucky decides that going into a bank with Mr. Alpert might be a
high-risk operation. Further, he has come to realize that he is holding a hot
potato. Mr. Alpert is bundled into the Lexus late at night and driven somewhere
eerily quiet. With good reason, he suspects that his luck has run out. Rather
than spoil one of the book's most bleakly funny moments, let me just note that
few sounds have quite the sensory impact of duct tape being ripped from a roll.
Mr. Alpert may be no hero, but he survived his kidnapping by remaining
extraordinarily cool under pressure, and keeping his lawyerly wits about him.
Observant and shrewd, he amassed a dossier's worth of evidence to present to the
police, who were, in fact, deeply impressed by what they heard: they judged his
story to be the biggest pack of lies ever bundled together by an unaided human
being.
Only after crucial details panned out did the chase begin in earnest. The
pursuit and capture of Lucky and the rest of the crew, an operation successfully
completed in about 48 hours, make a rousing conclusion to a crazy adventure.
New Yorkers enjoy playing one-upmanship when it comes to crime. I'll see your
mugging and raise you two break-ins and a carjacking. Mr. Alpert suffered
terribly, but he does have something to show for the experience. For the rest of
his life, no one will ever beat him in this little game.
ttp://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/24/books/24grim.html?ei=5070&en=fc47a1116df1be21&ex=1170392400&emc=eta1&pagewanted=print
January 24, 2007
Books Of The Times
A Hostage Who Stayed a Few Steps Ahead
By WILLIAM GRIMES
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
A Memoir of Survival
By Stanley N. Alpert
On the night of Jan. 21, 1998, Stanley
N. Alpert was heading home in Greenwich Village with pleasant thoughts on his
mind. The next day he would turn 38. By chance, he had struck up a conversation
with an attractive woman on the subway, and it looked as if a date were in the
cards. As he walked, he mused, and as he mused, he failed to notice two armed
men closing in on him from behind. Before he knew it, he was in the back seat of
a new Lexus, about to experience the most terrifying 25 hours of his life.
"The Birthday Party" is Mr. Alpert's harrowing, often hilarious reconstruction
of what should have been a garden-variety New York street crime. He gives a
taut, hour-by-hour account of a simple robbery that became a kidnapping and
then, by a quirk of fate, a ghetto version of "The Ransom of Red Chief," as Mr.
Alpert, by all appearances Grade A victim material, turned into a colossal
headache for his captors. Precisely how this nebbishy Brooklyn boy, partial to
peach-flavored Snapple iced tea and chocolate chip cookies, induced reverse
Stockholm syndrome and maneuvered his way to freedom makes "The Birthday Party"
one of the most exhilarating, improbable New York stories ever told.
The original plan was simple: drive the victim to an A.T.M. and force him to
withdraw money. When Lucky, the gang's ringleader, discovered that Mr. Alpert
had $110,000 in his savings account, the plan changed. After a quick visit to
the A.T.M., Mr. Alpert found himself sitting blindfolded in an apartment
somewhere in Brooklyn, watched over by three armed men, three prostitutes
employed by Lucky and one very nervous landlord.
In the morning, Lucky informs him, he will be driven to his bank to withdraw
$50,000 that Lucky, in a telephone transaction, has shifted from savings to
checking. There is nothing to worry about, one captor insists: "You got your
fine education, your good job. It don't matter to you if I get your money.
You'll just make it again."
At this point it has not quite dawned on the gang exactly what Mr. Alpert meant
when he informed them that he was an assistant federal attorney and that they
might have made a small miscalculation in choosing him.
The ordeal of captivity is horrific yet ridiculous, like a demented episode of
MTV's "Real World." Mr. Alpert himself wavers between the two points of view.
All around him, a chaotic scene unfolds, as Ren and Sen, the two henchmen, play
with their guns, philosophize, smoke marijuana and have sex with the
prostitutes. Occasionally Lucky, attending to pressing business concerns in the
outside world, pops in to restore order and refine the crime plans.
Mr. Alpert concentrates, very hard, on exuding a cooperative spirit and winning
the sympathy of those around him, all the while filing away small bits of
information that will help convict everyone in the room if he ever gets out
alive.
There are many tense moments. Sen, without warning, begins raving, screaming out
sick, violent fantasies of murder and mayhem. "I remained frozen in sheer
terror, silent and unflinching, hoping he would not act," Mr. Alpert writes.
Gradually, he realizes that Sen is singing along to a Busta Rhymes rap on the
radio.
When the gang offers Mr. Alpert free sex with one of the women, he calculates
feverishly. A refusal might be interpreted as racism. On the other hand, the
loss of dignity might make him seem less sympathetic, easier to inflict pain on.
He says no, very politely.
Mr. Alpert and his captors inhabit different worlds. The men laugh at Mr.
Alpert's $49 Florsheim shoes. They examine his watch and ring with contempt.
They cannot understand why, at his age, he is not married with children. Mr.
Alpert tells them that his parents wonder the same thing. His money earns him a
measure of respect, and, as the hours drag on, Ren and Sen ask for free, much
appreciated legal advice.
A bond develops. "Yo, Stanley, you should join our gang," Sen tells him. "You
could recommend friends that we could kidnap." After a moment's reflection, Sen
amends his suggestion "Naw, I mean you could recommend your enemies for us to
kidnap." Mr. Alpert decides a cryptic smile is the best response.
Eventually Lucky decides that going into a bank with Mr. Alpert might be a
high-risk operation. Further, he has come to realize that he is holding a hot
potato. Mr. Alpert is bundled into the Lexus late at night and driven somewhere
eerily quiet. With good reason, he suspects that his luck has run out. Rather
than spoil one of the book's most bleakly funny moments, let me just note that
few sounds have quite the sensory impact of duct tape being ripped from a roll.
Mr. Alpert may be no hero, but he survived his kidnapping by remaining
extraordinarily cool under pressure, and keeping his lawyerly wits about him.
Observant and shrewd, he amassed a dossier's worth of evidence to present to the
police, who were, in fact, deeply impressed by what they heard: they judged his
story to be the biggest pack of lies ever bundled together by an unaided human
being.
Only after crucial details panned out did the chase begin in earnest. The
pursuit and capture of Lucky and the rest of the crew, an operation successfully
completed in about 48 hours, make a rousing conclusion to a crazy adventure.
New Yorkers enjoy playing one-upmanship when it comes to crime. I'll see your
mugging and raise you two break-ins and a carjacking. Mr. Alpert suffered
terribly, but he does have something to show for the experience. For the rest of
his life, no one will ever beat him in this little game.