The Pickpocket

The pickpocket crossed his arms and leaned against the wall of the busy street corner, one leg up against the wall for support, and surveyed his surroundings.  Breathing deeply, he smiled.  The whole day lay ahead of him, full of promise.  At this hour, on this corner, the day, the city, and its people were his for the taking.  As he leaned against the wall, and possibly without realizing he was even doing it, the pickpocket squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and readied himself for the challenge of a new day.

After a night spent on the floor of a basement of a friend of a friend, he had woken up that morning in the dark room and pulled himself up off the braided, oval rug on which he had spent the night.  Stepping over the still sleeping forms of other twenty-somethings around him, he had tiptoed up wooden stairs to the main floor of a house he’d never seen before belonging to someone he’d never met.  Hungry, he’d popped into the kitchen to look for something to eat but had seen only the remains of the previous night’s party: turned over beer bottles and a mangled, empty pretzel bag. The few cupboards he’d opened had held only chipped saucers and mismatched glassware so instead of eating he’d splashed some water on his face in a sink filled with empty take-out containers and had headed out the back of the house by way of a partially unhinged screen door, squinting his eyes against the morning light, to start his day.

Leaving the house where he had spent the night behind him, he had walked back toward the downtown area, feeling hopeful and with an eager stride. With each step, the stillness of the neighborhood lined with dilapidated row homes separated by chain link fences and small patches of weed-choked grass, had receded, gradually replaced by taller, commercial buildings.  

Once fully in the city center, the pickpocket had come to a complete stop on the sidewalk, and had let the vibrations of the city, a city that had been up and humming well before he had, wash over him, cleansing him of the discomforts of an uncomfortable night’s rest.  Breathing deeply, he had inhaled its energy and begun again toward his destination. As he walked, he had taken in the colorful beauty of the large blue and gray buses weaving through traffic dotted with yellow cabs, of the pastel-appointed strollers pushed by exhausted mothers along the soft blur of steam-filled streets, and of the understated cool tones of the nine-to-fivers who had passed him with a purposeful pace, either very eager to get to (what he figured to be) tedious office jobs or very afraid of being late. 

En route to his favorite corner, the pickpocket had stopped at his favorite coffee truck,  rummaged in the front pocket of his jeans and scooped out a dollar’s worth of change, ignoring the familiar, pungent scent of unwashed clothing that the movement of his hand in his pockets had stirred.  He’d hurriedly shoved the change into the vendor’s hand, grabbed his cup of coffee with the other and had turned to walk away with his coffee when he had recognized an old man sitting on the street corner a few steps beyond the vendor. Sighing heavily, he had thrust his hand back in his pocket to find another dollar, bought a second cup of coffee, and walked it over to the man.  With a “Sorry, Stevie, I hadn’t seen you there when I grabbed my coffee but better late than never though, right, buddy?” he’d placed the coffee into the grateful, smiling man’s chapped, stained hands. In return, the pickpocket had himself smiled, revealing a chipped incisor nestled in a bed of yellowed teeth and moved on. 

The pickpocket had found a nearby bench and drunk the coffee on it, savoring every sip. He had been hungry but there had been no more money for that. The twisting, writhing creature that resided in his belly that had first stirred back at the house, was fully awake now and wanted food.  The pickpocket knew it would be appeased only for a little while by the coffee and that he needed to get to work if he was going to eat. He had stood up, tossed the cup in a nearby trash can, and headed to his favorite street corner, where he now stood.

As he leaned against the wall at his street corner, the pickpocket’s body was relaxed but his senses alert. Arms crossed, and otherwise perfectly still, his eyes darted rapidly following the throngs of people as they passed.  A man in a pin-striped suit with a receding hairline strode by and would have been ripe for swiping but his pace was too quick.  Soon after him, came an elderly woman but her white-knuckled hand gripped her purse too tightly against her chest. She wouldn’t do either. The pickpocket was a thief, not a thug.  

Time passed slowly for the pickpocket as he scoped.  A swirl of city sounds enveloped him:  buses heaving, taxis honking, people yelling.  But the cacophony was only a hazey, white-noise backdrop to the laser-focused study of those that passed him.

Then, a group of three teenage girls headed toward him. The pickpocket straightened, almost imperceptibly, his back muscles tensing. He was careful not to make eye contact. 

The three teenagers stood close as they walked down the sidewalk. They chatted as they walked, laughing easily.  Studying them quickly, the pickpocket saw that the girl in the middle held a cell phone with her arm slightly extended so that the other two could see the screen,and that the other two girls leaned in obligingly every once in a while to look. All three girls, he saw, had long shiny hair pulled into ponytails, wore jeans and carried backpacks slung over a single shoulder.  

The three girls passed in front of the pickpocket.  He waited until they had advanced past him several feet and allowed several others to pass him too before kicking off from the wall and following.  Within moments, the group of three teenage girls, along with the several others, and the pickpocket stopped at the crosswalk of a busy intersection.  As they stood waiting, other pedestrians also joined the small group to wait for the light to cross. 

The pickpocket knew he’d have to work fast, before the white flashing figure would beckon the group to the other side. He sidled up behind one of the girls whose backpack zipper was closest to him, and already drawn partially open. With a singular fluid, rapid maneuver, he slid his hand in and held it still, waiting for when she would laugh again - when he knew that her body would move. The girl laughed and the pickpocket hastily felt around at the base of the bag.  When he did, he detected the smooth, cool edges of a leather rectangle, grabbed it and with sleight of hand slid it vertically into the pit of his opposite arm.  When the light finally changed, the pickpocket let the group pull out to cross the street, and stepped back into the next crowd of pedestrians.

With his arm drawn close to his body, the pickpocket spun on one heel, took a sharp right and walked with a quick step to distance himself as much as possible.  When he felt it was safe to do so, he ducked into a narrow alleyway. He crouched low behind a dumpster and pulled the wallet from his armpit.  Seeing it only now for the first time, he noticed the delicate stitching on the wallet, and how whoever had made it had patched together different pieces of leather to make a rather pretty billfold. Instinctively, and respectfully, he wiped his armpit sweat off of it before opening it.  Skipping the credit cards, the pickpocket fished out two twenty-dollar bills, a ten, and a five, and thrust the money quickly into his front pocket. Looking in one of the partitions of the wallet, he saw that there was a photo inside of an older woman, together with a young girl of maybe four or five. The pickpocket stared at the picture for a moment before tucking it carefully back into the wallet, between two credit cards, and then, stood up, stretched, and casually chucked the wallet into the dumpster.  It was time to feed the screaming beast that now clawed against the inside of his belly.

The pickpocket used some of his newfound wealth to buy himself a cheeseburger, fries, and a soft drink for lunch which he devoured on a bench in a nearby park.  After finishing his meal, he tossed the greasy wrappers in the trash can next to the bench. He then sauntered over across the park for a quick nap in the shade that fell on the marble wall of his favorite fountain. 

After a restorative rest, a deep but brief sleep, he thought he’d try his luck again.  The pickpocket meandered for a time through the park looking for possible targets but knew that for the most part it was the homeless who gathered there and so, instead, headed to another part of the city where he knew that people with too much money and too little smarts liked to spend time.  The people here, he had noted over the past few weeks, liked to sip frothy drinks at outdoor cafes with their designer purses perched on chair backs.  It was these same types of people who later strolled slowly in front of storefronts window shopping, unknowingly offering up their wallets, watches, and iphones in abundance. 

Once there, the pickpocket assumed his surveillance stance, leaning this time against a lamppost to scope.  Almost immediately, the pickpocket saw her.  She sat alone at the cafe, head bowed down, writing in a journal. Tight, black, shiny ringlet curls billowed down her back.  She was trim, tan, and without makeup.  The pickpocket’s heart skipped a beat. From where he stood, several yards away, he felt that he had never seen anything or anyone quite so beautiful.  

For a moment, the pickpocket forgot his cardinal rule to never stare too long, and did just that. Openly focusing his gaze on the girl, he let his mind wander.  He was a young man after all and not unhandsome, just uncared for - he thought with a chuckle. In a split second, he decided that neither the girl nor others at the cafe would be targets. He wanted only to be a young man, and her, a pretty girl. 

He was lost in that thought when the girl moved.  Grabbing her journal and materials from the table, she sifted through a bag on her lap, drew out some money, and stood to leave, indicating to the waiter that she had left money on the table.  In doing so, she smiled at the waiter.  The pickpocket’s knees gave out slightly.  She took his breath away. 

The pickpocket realized that she was heading his way.  He quickly and quietly spat on his hands, ran them through his unctuous locks over a sweaty scalp, then wiped them on the sides of his thighs.  The girl approached, walking at a fast clip.  Within a split second she was in front of him, about to pass him.  Without thinking, he blurted, “Hey there, how are you?”  Before he could feel regret, she turned to him slowly, without slowing down, raised an eyebrow, and snorted.

The pickpocket abruptly looked down at his feet, hot shame burning up through his neck to his cheeks and ears and was suddenly very aware of his own scent, and of the black that rimmed his nails.  He turned quickly on one heel and walked in the opposite direction, in the direction of the tables at the cafe the girl had just left.  Instinctually and angrily, and without slowing his own step, he grabbed the money off of the table the girl had sat at as he passed. 

For the remainder of the day, the pickpocket worked relentlessly, not allowing himself to feel the bitterness that drove him.  He did well, too: 4 wallets, a watch, and one bracelet.  

He was nearly done for the day when he zeroed in on one last target: a young well-dressed man in his early twenties carrying a leather messenger bag. The pickpocket saw right away that the flap on the messenger bag, though closed, was not secured by its two buckles.  For an instant, the pickpocket hesitated; after a full day’s work he’d done well and was getting hungry again but the softening of the late afternoon light, and the uptick on the sidewalks of the working masses hurrying to catch their buses or trains home, convinced him that this last pilfer would be worth his efforts.

The pickpocket followed the well-dressed man little more than a block when the pickpocket noticed that the man was nearing a group of other pedestrians.  He had to strike then, he knew.  The pickpocket doubled his pace and walked quickly to catch up to him.  When he was slightly behind the man, almost next to him, the pickpocket thrust his body into the young man’s, making as though he had tripped.  At the same time, in one smooth gesture, as he fell against the young man, the pickpocket thrust his hand into the man’s bag, feeling quickly for what he needed, readying his other hand to pat the man on his chest in an assuring way as if to to apologize for the innocent stumble.

The young man, however, caught the pickpocket by surprise when he turned quickly and grabbed the pickpocket’s arm as it fished in the bag.  In an equivalent swift, deft maneuver the young man grabbed a pocket knife from his right, front pocket and swung it toward the part of the pickpocket’s forearm that was not inside the young man’s bag.  The pain caused by the slice of the blade to the pickpocket’s arm registered quickly, and the pickpocket recoiled, empty-handed, with a sharp, surprised wail. 

The young man and the pickpocket stood, equally in shock, and locked eyes for a moment.  They stood frozen among a throng of pedestrians, none of whom it seemed had really taken notice of the kerfuffle.  The two stood as mirror opposites - the young man in his neat, trim, work attire and the pickpocket in his grimy, disheveled clothing.  Both were roughly the same age, the same height, and each stunned at what had just happened.  

The young man with the messenger bag, livid, broke the silence. “Get the f …!” but the pickpocket was already on the move.  Gripping his arm, as blood slipped through the fingers of his clenched hand, the pickpocket receded back into the crowd, then turned and bolted away in the opposite direction. 

The pickpocket turned back only once to make sure that the young man had not followed him.  Instead, he saw that an attractive, well-dressed young woman with long auburn hair, stood on the other side of the street with the young man. The young woman stood close to the young man, and, evidently concerned, was engaging the young man in conversation.  

Still grasping his arm, the pickpocket headed several blocks eastward which brought him back to the safety of his napping fountain.  There, he rinsed his wound, which had already begun to dry, then wrapped his arm tightly with a tattered handkerchief he carried in his back pocket.  With a heavy sigh, and rounded shoulders, he sat on the wall of the fountain, ignoring the pulsating pain in his arm, and turned his thoughts toward what he might eat, and where he might later sleep that night.

The pickpocket stood up, patted his full pockets, and walked out of the park in the direction of the home where the house party had been the night before, hoping he might stumble into someone along the way who might tell him of another party in perhaps some other house where he might spend the night.