Twelve Years Ago
I am a badass. I can do this. I want to eat tonight.
I duck between the food trucks while I hoist my ratty bookbag up on my shoulder. The smell of carne asada wafts out of the truck behind me, and my stomach grumbles. I scan the lunchtime crowd looking for my mark. I’ve got a type. Older, well-dressed, and usually a man because they’re easier, but I’m not picky. I’ll go both ways.
There he is. Tall and thin, probably about sixty, with short white hair and a tan raincoat hanging open over an expensive bespoke suit.
Perfect. Flipping up my hood, I slouch as close as I can while he pays for his sandwich. I can see several hundred-dollar bills poking out of his wallet.
Score!
If I pull this off, it means I can get a hotel room for a night. Take a shower with all the hot water I want, and no one will yell at me to hurry up. I stifle a shout of joy when he slips the wallet into his coat pocket rather than his pants.
My book bag hits him as I brush past him. A quick mumbled apology as my hand dips into his pocket, and my fingers are on his wallet in an instant. Before I can slip away, I feel pressure around my wrist. Not the first time I’ve been caught, so I do what usually works. I scream. Most men respond the same way and let go. They don’t want to be accused of assault. This guy, though, doesn’t flinch. He stands there, contemplating me, calmly, with his fingers firmly around my wrist and my hand holding his wallet. I pull, but he’s strong.
I am a badass. This isn’t the worst situation I’ve been in. Just need to escape.
While I attempt to extricate myself, I drop the wallet. My bookbag strap breaks, sending my books tumbling to the ground as well. Damn it. Grandpa lets go of me and stoops quickly to pick up his wallet.
Usually, I would run away, but my books are spilled out all over the ground. Those fuckers were expensive, but the dude snatches them up.
“Managerial Accounting, Calculus II, Statistics?” He gives me a curious look. “Did you steal these too?”
Asshat. I reach for the books, but he’s taller than me and holds them up out of my reach.
“I paid for those.” Sort of. “Why wouldn’t they be mine? Do you think I’m stupid or something?”
He considers me for a moment before answering. “Not stupid. Reckless.”
“Whatever,” I huff out and cross my arms over my chest. He smiles and laughs.
“Now, you sound like my nephew when he was your age.”
“Gimme my books back, or are you going to call the cops? You got your wallet back. I’m sorry I tried to lift it,” I say as contritely as I possibly can. Probably snarkier than is wise, given the situation.
“No, no cops, if you’ll have lunch with me.”
“I am not a whore,” I hiss at him.
He laughs again and turns to the lady who owns the food truck. “Hey, Stella, will you vouch for me?” He lays his free hand on his chest. “Assure this young lady I’m not some creepy-ass pervert?”
“Honey, you’re fine. Saul’s the best man I know. Three husbands, so I’m an expert.”
“Thanks, Stella, and thanks for the heads up too.” He takes his sandwich and drink from the counter while continuing to hold my books hostage. He motions to a bench nearby.
My forehead wrinkles up as he says, “You’ve been hanging around lifting wallets in the same place for too long. Stella saw you coming a mile away.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit.” He hands me the drink and sandwich and sits down. I keep one eye on him as I dig into the lunch. He’s so not getting it back.
“I’m curious why you’re a pickpocket studying advanced math.”
“I’m studying math, so I don’t need to keep stealing wallets.” Don’t know what you do with math skills, but my classmates are impressed when they hear all the classes I’m taking. I’ve never impressed people before.
“Wanna tell me why you’re stealing wallets?”
No way am I about to tell a perfect stranger my whole fucked-up sob story.
“No reason.”
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“You got somewhere safe to stay?”
“Yeah, sure,” I lie as I chew the delicious pastrami sandwich.
Saul gives me a hard stare, guessing I’m full of shit. “Hmm. Maybe you’ll tell me tomorrow. Same time, right here, and I’ll buy you lunch again.”
He stands, hands me my books, and walks away. I realize he’d given me his lunch, and tucked inside my Managerial Accounting book is a hundred-dollar bill.
