Source: 'Taken,' official trailer
Taken: How a missing magazine turned me into Liam Neeson … and an Instagram anti-hero
A uniquely-New York story of hope, betrayal, revenge, redemption—and a purloined magazine
On Valentine’s Day, at 9:30 p.m., I left my apartment to catch a movie at the Williamsburg Nitehawk Cinema.
Passing through the vestibule on my way out the door, I noticed the latest issue of my New York Magazine subscription had been delivered. I picked it up and flipped through. It looked like a good issue.
At this point I was faced with a uniquely New Yorker dilemma: Do I put the magazine in my pocket and take it to the movie? Or do I schlep all the way back upstairs, unlock my door, deposit the magazine inside, lock the door, and hustle to make my date? Or, third option, do I leave the magazine where it is for now, trusting it will be there when I return?
I chose option three, the most convenient of options. This would prove to be a grave mistake.
When I got home, the magazine had been taken. I checked the mailbox: no magazine. I checked under my doormat: no magazine.
I suspected that it may have been swiped by one of my neighbors. I felt guilty thinking that someone would steal my magazine. I’d never had a problem like this before and I didn’t want to jump to any unfair conclusions. How could I get my magazine back? I decided to do what any typical sane person would do and posted a simple sign on the front door that said: “Whoever took my New York Magazine please return it. I was looking forward to reading it.” I signed it “Kareem, 2L.”
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I included my apartment number so they’d know where to bring my lost mail, but also to subtly remind the cultured cat burglar that we’re all neighbors here, and we live in a society.
I went to sleep.
The next morning I opened my door and went downstairs to see if someone had returned my mag. They had not. And to my surprise, someone had responded to my sign with demands: “If you stop playing your music so loudly!”
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If the music was the reason that my magazine had been taken hostage, I knew that there could be only three suspects. The person above me, the person below me, or the person across the hall from me.
At this point, a switch flipped within me. I became Liam Neeson. Something I loved had been taken and I would stop at nothing to get it back. My internal monologue went wild.
“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. If you’re looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money… but what I do have are a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter magazine go now, that will be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you… but if you don’t, I will look for you, I will find you… and I will kill you post you on Instagram.”
I hadn’t seen the movie “Taken” since it came out in 2009 but strangely enough, I had just been in Cairo about a week ago visiting my Covid-sick Grandmother. As she lay in her bed, I glanced up at the TV.
In Cairo, there is an English-language television station that plays all sorts of films. I turned it on and “Taken” was playing. I was going to turn it off, but then my uncle started watching it. And then my sick grandmother woke from her fever and couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. Our attention had been kidnapped like Liam Neeson’s daughter. The film holds up.
I’ve resolved to reclaim my New York Magazine. At this point, a community of people had started to follow the story and rally around me on Instagram. An account devoted to quintessentially New York signs (and run by New York Nico) picked it up. The toothpaste was out of the tube! There was no going back. The likes went through the roof.
Casa Magazines, the iconic shop in Downtown Manhattan reached out telling me to come by to pick up a free copy. They had my back! New York Magazine slid into my DMs letting me know that they were overnighting a new copy of the issue ASAP. The people in the comments were heavily invested and their words of wisdom and encouragement gave me the strength I needed to keep looking for answers. After all, I had unintentionally become an anti-hero and I could not let them down. It was my duty to solve this mystery. I owed it to them as much as myself.
I make another sign and concede to keep my music down (besides the fact that I almost never play loud music) but my signs are met with new signs. A sign from a neighbor calling me a sign-crazed moron. A note from building management threatening punitive action. Worst of all, a sign from my subscription stealer letting me know he’ll bring it back “when I’m finished reading it.” I was rooting for Liam to get his daughter back. New Yorkers are rooting for me to get my magazine back. Somewhere, someone is leafing through my pages, probably folding the cover.
Liam Neeson might terrify people like my thief-neighbor, but I am a bit out of my depths. My good friend Josh suggested I go hard, threatening in one last sign “don’t dare the devil to damn your soul. Return my magazine, or else!” But I am a very non-confrontational person. Like my grandmother would say, “Habibi, inta gameel [you are wonderful] and you deserve el dounya [the world.]”
But I don’t want the world. I just want my magazine. And I won’t rest until it’s returned.
Update on February 22: The editors would like to note that this saga has finally had closure. Rahma’s landlord reviewed the tapes and found that the culprit was not actually anybody living in the building—but a former tenant. As for Rhama himself? He his now the proud owner of not one but two copies of the current New York Magazine, donated generously by Casa Magazine and the staff at New York. Sometimes the anti-hero wins after all.
