You don’t have to coffee me up to get decent pickpocketing out of me. I operate between seven and eight a.m. on the Manhattan-bound J train. I choose my targets with careful consideration. It’s difficult to describe what I’m looking for. It’s an attraction, an intuition. It’s how I chose her, too.
She looked like a late summer dare, standing there facing the subway door. She had camped on the beach and wore the same loose tank top and sand-colored trekking pants since yesterday, I imagined. A few locks of hair had escaped the fishtail braid and lingered on her neck. Strapped to her back, a hiking backpack with two robust buckles. Her phone peeked from the back pocket of her pants. She took lazy sips from a poly paper cup, “CAUTION: HOT” printed along the bottom edge. Holding it close to her lip, her gaze fixed to a vanishing point beyond the doors.
Dozens of decent, hard-working people rode the express that morning. A placid couple holding on to one another, between me and my target. I stepped closer, edging in between her backpack and the handrail. This stirred her from her morning semi-coma; she scanned her surroundings and rested her gaze on me.
“Love your style,” she said with a pleasing morning voice.
“Thanks,” I said, drawing my cap down. I didn’t look like a thief. Designer sunglasses (stolen), a light suede jacket (also stolen), strawberry blonde locks (not stolen, but the money for the hairdo was). With that four-eyed phone of hers, I would’ve been set for my next salon appointment. Fishtail braid with a touch of tumble, please.
When the train’s rocking amplified into a thrust, I feigned collapse to make contact. Slide and snatch, her phone in my hand, in the pocket of my suede jacket.
“Oops, you OK?” she asked, clearly unaware of her most recent loss.
“So sorry, I lost my balance,” I said.
“You’re with Jane Street?” she said, pointing to my cap.
“Jane Street, yes. Two years now.”
That cap. Clever logo, great fabric. The guy I stole it from was reading graphs on his phone, squiggly lines that furrowed his brow. I had no clue what Jane Street was, but I adored the thought of appropriating the guy’s I’m-smart-at-everything look.
“I did an internship with them after college,” said my target with something like pride in her voice. “Which department?”
“Urban development,” I said.
She took a small sip from her beverage, eyeing me with suspicion. She was judging, albeit in a charming way, sun-cast crinkles saluting from the tail of her eyes.
“I thought Jane Street only does trading,” she said.
“It does! I am—an architect. I design their offices,” I said and looked away, hoping that was the end of the questioning.
Around us, decent people, hardworking people dozing. The rocking of the train had put them in a trance. They shook side to side like empty bottles in a case, ready to be filled up by the end of the day.
At Bowery, the placid couple got off the train, my target stayed. Our dim reflections in the subway door stood side by side. Hers, grand and harmonious; mine, pieced together like a thrift store’s consignment aisle. She freed a thin strand of hair stuck against the side of her neck. I copied her move. I didn’t quite capture her ease, so I tried again, on the other side. My hand felt heavy and robotic, lacking grace. I agonized and almost whimpered out loud; her phone in my pocket had become insufficient. At most it would finance a poor imitation of her sleep-laden hair, but it wouldn’t infuse me with her essence. I inspected her head to toe: everything she carried was wrapped, draped, or buckled safely on her. Everything except for the “CAUTION: HOT” beverage. I craved for the fateful brew she sipped with so much need, now inundating her taste buds, now flowing down her throat and into her very core.
I tapped her shoulder and said, “Listen, if you ever want to come back to Jane Street, you can have my number. I know some folks.”
Her reply was a lively “SURE!” Her hand reached inside her back pocket. “Um, I think I lost my phone.”
She scanned the floor with panic, and I pretended to look too. A bit of space formed around us.
“Maybe you misplaced it. Backpack?” I suggested.
“Could you hold this a sec?” she asked, handing me her cup. I accepted her donation, wanting to whoop. She placed her backpack on the floor and started searching. The train halted, and I slipped out into the crowd.
From her beverage I drew a sip. It was bitter but it filled me up.
