Anyway, I'm left with a deactivated credit card, a host of fraudulent charges, a sense of betrayal by this Canadian whom I've never met, and a burning curiosity about the wine cellar he's probably constructing.
Last night, long before I found out about this identity thief, I wrote the following short story. It's oddly appropriate.
In defense of the pickpocket in the story, and also this real-life Canadian crook, we humans often seek things that don't belong to us. We're always craving what's not ours. Sometimes it gets us into trouble, while other times it just leaves us troubled. The important part is that we recognize these desires, own up to them, and figure out how to shut them off...before we start building fancy wine cellars on someone else's dime.
Love,
Lisa
In Defense of the
Pickpocket
If this is redemption
Why do I bother at
all?
There’s nothing to mention,
There’s nothing to mention,
And nothing has
changed.
-James Vincent McMorrow, “We Don’t Eat”
Still coming?
She typed the message around noon, while working the lunch shift. She then erased it and typed it again, at least five times. She’d played around with
different phrases, eventually opting for the one that sounded the most impromptu.
“C’mon,” she murmurs aloud to her empty apartment. “Write back to me.”
There are dishes to be washed,
piles of laundry to be folded. But she stands against the kitchen counter
instead, staring at the cellphone. Her heart beats fiercely. She can feel in
her fingertips, ears, calves, toes. Places she’s never felt it before.
She reaches into the fridge,
grabbing a bottle of juice. It tastes rancid. The acidity lingers on her tongue
and temporarily pulls her attention away from her pounding heart.
A familiar four-note melody
slices through the air. Slamming the bottle of juice onto the counter, she hurries
to her phone.
30 minutes, the incoming text reads.
She stares at the screen,
envisioning more words. Ones that are less icy and impersonal. Ones that she
knows—without a shadow of a doubt--will never, ever come from the emotionless man
who sent the text.
What am I supposed to do for the next thirty minutes? she wonders.
Although the past eight months disappeared faster than a breath of air in
wintertime, she can’t fathom the half hour ahead of her. She knows it will drag
on.
With nothing better to do, she reaches
into her pocket and extracts only a stick of gum. Nothing more. The forty
dollars she earned by working lunch shift are missing.
Her mouth drops open. She checks
one more time, but the results are the same: her pocket is still empty.
This happened before, back in April. On the corner of Fillmore and Pine.
She dismissed the man’s groping hand as a drunken indiscretion, until she got
home and realized the stranger had wanted more than just a quick feel. He’d
taken almost a hundred bucks.
How could I let this happen again? I’m an idiot, she thinks, leaning
against the kitchen sink. In defense of
the pickpocket, my cash was sticking out. On display for the world to see.
It
dawns on her that she shouldn’t be making excuses for a criminal. But she’s
made so many excuses lately that it’s become a habit.
Two days later, she sits on a swivel chair in the middle of a restaurant.
Her best friend stares at her, no trace of compassion or empathy in those
blue-green eyes.
“Why?” the friend asks.
“I don’t know,” she says, and it’s
the first honest answer she’s given in a long time.
“You’ve done this before,” the
friend comments in disgust.
“I have,” she readily admits. “Several
times.”
The friend is silent for a
moment. “Are you proud of yourself?”
She doesn’t answer, because she
finds the question stupid. Condescending, too.
Quickly, she grabs her purse and
leaves the restaurant. She doesn’t turn around.
It’s a cold night, which is not atypical for Northern California. Clouds
block the moon. After walking a few blocks, she arrives at home. Her fingers
are nearly frozen.
Her apartment offers little comfort; it’s as chilly as the air outside. A
Bible sits on the floor by the closet. She can’t remember exactly which lines
used to provide consolation. These days, none of the verses bring much relief.
With a sigh, she slides to the
floor. Carpet rubs against her ankles and thighs.
Wasn’t I made new, supposedly? she reflects, staring up at the
ceiling. Born again?
The trash can is filled with latex. Unwashed sheets reek of indiscretion.
Her entire apartment testifies to emotional death, not rebirth.
She inches toward the thick book lying in front of the closet. She doesn’t
have enough strength to pick it up, much less read it, but she stares at the
cover for a few seconds.
“It’s been here,” she says quietly. She knows she has justified the unjustifiable. She
also knows that grace doesn’t require a perfect resume. For that, she is grateful.
