How To Be a Criminal

In this city, crime is simply a necessity. Not encouraged, of course, but in the poor side of Chicago, I’ve learned everything I need to know. I’ve been fighting to leave it every second, but I can’t deny that it doesn’t have its perks. It didn't hurt that the mall is packed to the brim with bustling crowds who have no idea that the best pickpocket in the city is in their midst.

    It’s simple, really. Large bucket hats are in style, and they’re way less conspicuous than baseball caps. Other than perfectly matching with my blue flower-patterned sundress and dirty sneakers (which resented all my attempts to clean them), bucket hats are great for hiding from the many fisheye security cameras adorning the ceiling. Combine that with my rather ingenious lipstick holder turned knife-hider, I am all set to wreak some havoc.

    I start at Zara clothing store, as per usual. All the outfits are so lovely, but cost way more than I could ever afford. Loving beautiful clothing is a kind of curse, I think, when you can never actually buy the pieces. I spot a gorgeous teal leather jacket with a thousand silver zippers that looked like it could belong to a motorcycle rider. I saunter up to it, looking to all the world like I belong here. I don’t look around for witnesses, but instead listen hard for any telltale footsteps. A further examination of the mirrored clothing rack reveals that no one is paying any attention to me. I try hard to fight my grin as I deftly cut off the white security tag and tuck the jacket into my handbag. It’s amazing what you can get away with by simply acting like you belong, like what you’re doing is normal. Still keeping my smile dimmed, I duck around the tall rack of clothes and pull a Zara bag out of my purse to stuff the jacket into. I leave the store with my head held high and my steps unrushed. After all, guilty women run. Smart guilty women stride.

    I felt a familiar twinge of guilt in my stomach, followed by the giddy rush I always feel when I pull a con like this. I’m not an evil person, I swear it. I would go so far as to say I’ve been a good person, once. An innocent one. That’s what my teachers always told me, before I started to skip school. “Maria is such an innocent little girl. Such lovely golden hair. And those adorable blue eyes! Truly a pleasure to have in class.” What they didn’t know was that I practiced my lock picking skills in their own classrooms and discovered my talent for slyfooting and blending in. My skipping classes confused many of them, which was unfortunate because it wasn’t because of them. I like all my teachers. No, I had just realized that my life was so much bigger than school. I will be rich and famous someday, I always told my friends with a laugh that did not take away from its sincerity. I believed it then, as I believe it now.

    The memories make me hungry for Mrs. Loretta’s chocolate chip cookies, so I head into the food court. There, the real fun begins. Passing a young woman who was naively holding her bags behind her, I dip my long fingers in and find a whole wallet and a receipt. Disguising my eagerness, I stay behind her and memorize the numbers on the credit card before slipping it back in her bag and taking the receipt (baring her signature) as my own, all the while shielding us both from anyone else’s gaze with my body. I walk along the tiled floors, disguising my happiness with a spin that makes my dress flair out in a lovely way. The odd looks I receive are worth it. I let my eyes wander through the crowd as if I am bored, and quickly spy a poor sap in the back of a bakery line. I walk up behind him and try not to let my eyes go to the money in his back pocket. When I spot a large crowd about to pass by, I bump him with my knee while simultaneously putting two fingers in his pocket and lifting out a twenty dollar bill. I look over my shoulder and quickly drop the money into my bag, frowning at the passing crowd as if they had jostled me as well. He is none the wiser.

    With how many times I have done this, I should not be so surprised that my schemes work. I would be well suited to the city, where I will be heading as soon as I garner up enough money. Today’s haul is really just practice. Once I get to the city, I can pull off bigger cons with better money, just enough to get into Manhattan School of Arts, my dream. I want to have that New York life all those artists sing about, with the bright cafes and flower stands and colors lighting up the place past midnight. I want to live.

    But that is not the focus of today. I wander around and find a Home Depot. I swipe a pack of paper clips and slip it into my bag. Now I have to plan. I’m not a huge fan of planning, so I never do it beforehand. I’m paying for that now. I let my eyes wander again around the store, spotting a rack of jackets all sporting security tags. I make my way over and pull out my knife, cutting the tags from their cloth. The material is a lot thicker than I thought. My brow furrows as I am on the eighth one, sawing my way through the persistent vinyl. A security guard was making his way towards me. 3, 2, 1. The tag ripped away and hit the floor with a tiny clang as the security guard cleared his throat.

    I swirled around, my dress billowing around me. In that second, I adopted the personality of “hurried teenage shopper”, one of the many I’ve dreamed up late at night. I named her Nina. “Hi officer, did you see my receipt? I dropped it somewhere here, I think. Oh, Mom’s gonna kill me!”

    He frowned. “I’m sorry young lady, I haven’t. But do you mind telling me why you were huddled over here?”

    The lie slips onto my tongue like syrup. “Well, I was trying a jacket on in the dressing rooms and I think I put the receipt in the pocket. I promised my mom that I would show her how much I spent and she’s expecting me back in like five minutes!”

    As I talk, I pinch my stolen receipt between the first knuckle of my index and middle finger. I keep my open palm towards the guard and (quickly and oh-so-carefully) kneel down, sweeping the dropped security tag into my palm as I flip the receipt forward. At the end of the blink-to-see-it action I am clutching the eighth tag in my fist and pinching the receipt in my fingers for the guard to see. “Oh, found it!” I beamed. “Thanks for your help, I gotta run. Have a nice day.” He may have returned the greeting, but I was already two aisles over with a bag full of cut and stolen security tags.

    This next part was going to be just plain fun. I dance through the store, dropping tags into open bags and drooping pockets, taking a little extra something as my own if I find it. A stick of gum,a  pretty ring, nothing too consequential. My guilt is already doing somersaults, along with the fire in my pulse.

    I wasn’t meant to be a criminal. Everything about my looks point to a popular girl in the valley, not the only white girl in the projects as a result of my dad’s not-so-great stockbroker. Marley was trying her best, but just now, that’s not enough. My parents don’t even know that I’m here right now. I said I would be at a friends house after school, not helping out a local gang with their shopping spree. But I’ve been putting this plan of mine off for too long.

    As the first of the seven people I had picked tries to leave the store, the alarms ring. Security rushes up to her and searches her bag, finding the little security tag I had planted. I gasp theatrically. “A criminal, my god!” Other shoppers gather around and some try to leave, only to set off more alarms. I myself try to get out while the crowd is forming, but the alarm started to ring even louder. All at once, guards descended upon me and found a tag hiding in the very corner of my purse. I gasp in shock and try to wriggle out of their grasp. They don’t care.

    Ten minutes later, I’m in the mall’s small holding cell crammed with seven other people. It’s a tidy place about the size of the walk-in closet I’ve always wanted. Just beyond the rusted bars is the Head of Security’s office, an equally small area with one desk off to the side wall facing a wall bearing nothing but a clock, ticking ominously. And right in front of me is the door. I quickly spot two security cameras, but the surveillance footage is being streamed to the computer on the desk. The Head Guard is still here, so agonizing as it is, I would have to wait.

    You have to understand, I couldn’t have just gotten myself caught. If I did that, security would put me on their records and may involve the police. With a group of people, they would have to investigate further and prolong any dreaded convictions. I know because I’ve researched extensively. Ok, one google search and a question to an old friend. Either way, I knew that I would be done for. All I really wanted to do was find out where the security office was, because I have scoured this mall top to bottom and couldn’t find anything without being deemed as suspicious. But that was the thing with smart people- if they find a knife in your hand, they’ll be too busy patting themselves on the back to notice the second one coming straight at them. Which is an extreme example, of course, I’ve never stabbed anyone. But I know how if I ever have to.

    Finally, finally, he leaves. The Head Guard warns us that he will be back in two minutes. Challenge accepted.

The lock looked like it would be easy to pick. With everyone worrying about and calling their husbands and babysitters, all I have to do is go up to the bars and look defeated. When I am sure that no one is looking, I turn my attention to the lock. A simple pin tumbler, from the feel of it. I quickly bend two of my surprisingly sturdy paper clips into tools, since I didn’t know I’d be needing mine today and they’re at home. The tension wrench is easy, just straightening a clip into a line and folding it in half tightly, then inserting it into the bottom of the lock. For the feeler pick, I also straighten it into a line, then crease the tip into a slight angle. Now for the fun part.

    Lock picking is easy, really, once you get it. The difficult part about this particular lock is not being able to see it, hugging the bars as I work. I put a little pressure on the tension wrench and wiggle the feeler around till I hear the click of a pin at the top being set. The last pin is stubborn. I push it with the feeler again and again, but it’s gotten stuck at the shear line. I can feel time slipping away from me as I’m forced to reset the pins and start all over. At last, I have all the pins clicked in, and it’s a simple matter of using the tension wrench to twirl the lock, and voila. Of course, everyone notices the creak of the doors, but I just lock them in again. No reason to bother the guard any more. The whole process has already stolen a minute I can’t afford to waste. I scour his drawers for the special key card that will let me enter the building after it closes. I never see it on his person, so it’s got to be here. After digging through for way too long I get frustrated and dump the contents of the last drawer (which is an absolute mess) onto the floor and find it, stuffing it into the pocket of my dress. The clock ticks down to 45 seconds. With a fist pump, I head to the security computer and try to get a feel for the program. It’s a standard CCTV system, which means I need a password to erase any footage. “123456” “qwerty” and “password” are quickly ruled out. I try the name I saw on his name tag, Louis Gomez, but nothing. Out of ideas, I whip out my phone and google the most common passwords. At this point, I’ll try anything. One of the top results is “senha”, “password” in porteguese. I quietly thank my spanish teacher and type out “clave”, “password” in spanish. With 12 seconds to go, I’m in. I erase all footage proving my guilt, then rig the cameras to flicker every night. The prisoners behind me watch on with interest, but a quick and specific threat has them all clearing their throats and clutching their hearts. I don’t need to worry about them anymore. Each tick of the clock jolts my heart. Mr. Gomez seemed like a punctual guy, and I have five seconds left. Gathering my things, I bolt out the door. 

    The trouble, terror, and guilt is worth it in the end. I exchange the card for $500 to a local gang. A steep price for them, but now they’re free to steal whatever they want after hours or hold parties or whatever they’d like to do. All they have to do is stay in the areas where the cameras are down, and they should be good to go. My part of the business was over as soon as the card was gone from my hands.

    I go home to my mother sleeping on the couch, even though she’s supposed to be at work right now. I tuck a threadbare blanket around her. She must still be tired from her last shift yesterday. Kids kick a dirty soccer ball around while their fathers come home from their jobs. Dad’s probably at the pub at the bottom of a barrel, so I leave dinner for him by the stove. I rid myself of the fancy bucket hat and sunny dress and put on a pair of my regular purple pajamas. I outgrew them years ago, but they fit fine. I tidy the house, which is easy, since it’s just one story. I do my homework and I go to bed.

    And then I dream. I dream of my life to come, of bakeries and shopping sprees and kisses in Times Square. I dream of living my life by the law, of art school and being offered a job at Disney for my creativity. I dream of caramel toffees and working late hours and loving my life the way I can never seem to love this one.

    I dream so hard that when I wake up, I can barely feel the tears drying on my cheeks.