I stared at Jack for a moment, disgusted that he was still on the floor. I yanked the blanket off the bed to cover him, mostly so I wouldn’t have to look at him and it kept the smell down to a minimum. I made up my bed, and cleaned up the bathroom a little.
I picked up my two book bags, one with my supply of clothes, and the other with everything else that belonged to me. There wasn’t much to the second bag: a couple of old paperbacks Wil found left around at school, a collection of freebie makeup and other samples I picked up while at the mall. Near the bottom was an old photo album, one of the few things I still carried from our past life, the life before mom died. I hadn’t opened it in years, but still kept it with me.
I tugged out a pair of shorts. It had been a bit warm for October and I had a ways to go if I was going to find a new place to target. I didn’t like wearing shorts while doing this sort of thing, but I didn’t have much choice this time. I only had one pair of jeans because they were too thick to carry in a bag containing everything I owned; shorts took up less space. I stretched the hem of my shorts down on my thighs, but they were still pretty short.
I found the same bra I wore yesterday, and a dark gray tank top. I pulled on my boots, wishing I had sneakers.
I smothered my face with foundation to try to cover the blotch of purple on my chin. Just so I didn’t look like a colorless monster, I swiped on some mascara and some lip gloss. When I wasn’t picking pockets at the mall, picking up free samples were the next best thing. Makeup came in handy if I needed to go talk to a manager about a job.
Today, I just needed to look human enough to blend in.
????
A half hour later, I was on a bus, heading for downtown Charleston. It was a long shot, because tourist season didn’t last through early October. Since the mall was no longer an option, and Tasty’s wouldn’t help me earn enough money, the only place I had left was Market Street.
Market Street was the home of an old slave trade building, a brick structure with wide open archways welcoming the weather in. I couldn’t imagine what it looked like in the old days, but it was filled with vendor stalls now. The building split up the middle of a street, and nearby on either side of the brick market were two story shops, the old kind with apartments on the second floor.
When I was in grade school, there was a field trip downtown and we had to write essays to try to explain how historical and romantic this downtown Charleston area was. To me, it was just an outside market, filled with expensive knickknacks people stuff on shelves and never look at again. People who didn’t realize how much money they were wasting. The price of a sweet grass basket, a painting of the old district homes, and a few useless key chains could have fed our family for a month or two.
As the city bus stopped in front of one of the hotels along the street, I climbed off, scanning the neighborhood. Only a handful of stalls bothered to open during the week when tourists were less likely in early fall.
I started my way up along one side of the street, with the brick building that was the market to one side, and the rows of stores not yet open on the other. I kept to the sidewalk and away from the vendors. I was unsure of this territory and didn’t want to look too familiar if I had to cross in front of them a few times.
It didn’t take long to find my first target. He was an older man, with white hair combed over on his head, blue eyes and age spots, like freckles, kissing his cheeks. He weaved around stalls at a slow place, occasionally bending over to examine a trinket. I followed casually behind him. I didn’t like how close together the stalls were, or the fact that the place wasn’t as busy as a mall. It was too difficult to blend in.
I hated the fact that he was older, too. I didn’t like pickpocketing girls, or older people or kids. Not only were they more difficult to distract with a flash of cleavage, but it just felt worse to be doing something that was already wrong. I didn’t want to be the person who stole old ladies’ handbags.
The only relief to the guilt I had was that he was wearing brand-new clothes, or so it looked to me. His was well-groomed, with a gold ring on his finger. If he was strolling around downtown in the middle of the week, he was more than likely someone well off enough he didn’t need to work or retired. With his nearly white hair, he appeared older at a distance, but up close he could have passed for perhaps fifty, so maybe he still worked. Maybe he didn’t need a hundred dollars.
The old man strolled with ease through the center of the market. It became more evident that we were heading the same direction, and he had plenty of opportunity to catch me out of the corner of his eyes, although he didn’t particularly seem interested in me. I pretended to pause on occasion at vendor stalls, fingering through faux silver jewelry and admiring yet another painting of a beach scene.
He paused in front of a sweet grass basket stall, making me think he might have been a tourist. Normally during the tourist season, local African American women sat along the edges of the shops, on top of cloths spread out along the ground. They weaved baskets made from sweet grass grown locally. Now, a couple of women merely sat along the edges of the displays, showing off the leftovers woven during the summer.
The old man turned sharply, redirecting his attention. He crossed the street, and ducked into a candy shop.
It had been a while since I’d been downtown, but I was fairly sure that shop was pretty massive. It had sections that were completely out of view of the front register. That meant there were cameras in there. I was hoping the cameras weren’t taping. It was still early in the day and without crowds of tourists, I was hoping the attendant would be very bored. If no one noticed, maybe it could still work.
I took my time crossing the street, not wanting to catch my target just inside the door and bump into him too soon.
When I entered the shop, I needed to stop and let my eyes adjust to the dimness. The store was almost cold with the air conditioner on full blast. I tucked my arms around my stomach, trying to recapture some of my own body heat. That was the sucky part about the weather in early October in South Carolina. A tad too warm in the sun, chill in the shadows. It usually gave me a headache.
The shop had shelves starting at stomach level and reaching up over my head. Displays were covered in packages of candy and gift baskets and little trinket toys to capture the attention of kids. The scent of sugar and nuts and chocolate was heavy.
My stomach growled. I nearly growled back at it for drawing needless attention. One doughnut hadn’t been enough. I should have followed my own advice and eaten a banana, although I was as sick of those as Wil was. I should have eaten another doughnut. I should have taken the whole box. I could have eaten them all. My hunger validated our needs. I had to make this pull. I had to run home with whatever I could get. I needed something other than oatmeal tonight.
The old man hovered over a display that had several bowls of hard candies, with plastic scoops and a scale for measuring out amounts. He stuck his hand into one of the bowls, and picked out a red cream hard candy and ate it. He tilted his head, his mouth moving as if he’d never tasted that flavor before and was considering it.
Must be nice to have so much money and free time to linger in a candy shop on a work day. I pretended to do the same thing, lingering over a couple of bins of chocolates, trying to find something that sparked my interest. I picked out one, a chocolate truffle. I cast a glance around and popped it into my mouth.
I nearly forgot my plan to pick up his wallet, because the mix of flavor, of sweet soft center, and milk chocolate set my stomach into turning. I’d had plain oatmeal and apples and bananas for so long that the sudden shift in flavors was overwhelming. Why couldn’t I work in a candy store?
Reluctantly, I pulled away from the chocolate displays. I would have picked out every single one to ‘taste’ and probably would have gotten chased out by the store clerk if I’d been spotted.
As if reading my mind that I was hoping he’d hurry, the old man collected a bag of the red cream candies, and
a gold box from a chocolate display. I tracked him out of the corner of my eye as to not alert him I was paying attention. I lingered by the door, as if checking out a candy display before leaving the store. He pulled out his wallet within my eyesight. He exposed it, showing me the ample amounts of cash inside. He paid for his purchase in the little alcove where the attendant was.
This was perfect. I’d never taken more than sixty from a wallet before as a general rule. I felt this time I might break my own rules. He had plenty, and I needed to get back.
This is the last one. I made myself promise to not do this again. This was it. After, I’d find something else to do. I’d check with the local bars again for a job. I’d beg on the street. I just had to keep Wil in school. I told myself my reasons over and over again, as if that could ever make me feel better. I wasn’t selling my body. I hadn’t been that desperate yet. I didn’t want to get to that point.
The old man approached, and time slowed to a crawl. Questioning myself. Asking the old man silently to forgive me. Hoping he really was well off and this wasn’t his rent money I was stealing.
He passed by me, and I swayed.
Bump.
I dropped my hand.
I hipped bumped him as I turned, lifting at the same time.
“Oh!” I said softly, faking a laugh. “Pardon me.” I turned my body toward him, masking my hand behind my back as I slipped his wallet in the spot between the small of my back and my underwear in my shorts. Easiest place to hide a wallet without looking like you’ve got a wallet bulge yourself.
The old man focused on my face, his lips curled into an instant smile, which made me feel worse than ever, but glad he was willing to be distracted by my face and not my breasts. “Pardon me, young lady.” He bowed his head politely, and headed out the door, packages in tow.
My heart thundered, and I stared at a jar of candy to count off a couple of seconds, giving him ample time to create some distance from us.
When I counted a full minute, I pretended to check the time and dashed out the door, heading in the opposite direction. It didn’t matter where I was heading, now, as long as I got out of eyesight of everyone who could have possibly spotted me.
I swallowed back the wedge of emotion in my throat. The aftermath of stealing was always the worst. Guilt really started to settle in then. Fear, too. It was a crucial time. At any moment, my target could check for his wallet, and put two and two together with my face. I had to get out of the area.
At the mall, there were easily a number of corridors and bathrooms and places to wait out time until I was sure things had calmed down.
Since I wasn’t familiar with this area, I dashed down the street as quick as I dared without drawing attention. The first spot that caught my eye as a good place to hide was an alleyway between two shops. I turned into it, pretending to be familiar and ran down it. There was an old dumpster near the back fence that separated this street from the one behind it. I was hoping for an intersection, but a place to hide would do.
I crouched behind the dumpster. I recoiled at the smell, and held my hand over my nose as I backed down the alley, checking to make sure I wasn’t followed.
When no one appeared, I patted the wallet through my clothes at my back. I was eager to get home. I wasn’t sure where I’d leave the wallet this time. Weren’t you supposed to drop lost keys into a post office box? Did that work for wallets, too? I didn’t want to leave it on the street. Maybe I could keep it just for now, and find his address, maybe even stuff it in his mailbox later. A risk, but I’d rather do that than put it somewhere unfamiliar to have it stolen by someone else.
Maybe I could do it before he got home.
I dipped my fingers into my shorts, tugging out the lump.
I pulled out a folded piece of newspaper, made square into the shape of a wallet.