How to Lead a Life of Crime - By Kirsten Miller Page 0,1
clutched in my hand.
“Yes?” I wait until I’m half a block away before I turn—just beyond the cameras’ range. I see him push the girl to one side. She stumbles and bounces off a wall. He’s an unnaturally large and angry specimen. I’d love to ask which steroids he uses.
“Give me the wallet, you faggot!”
“Faggot?” I grin and give him a saucy wink. “I never knew ’roid rage made you witty!”
As he charges toward me, I quickly tuck the wallet into the waistband of my jeans. I’ll need both hands free in a moment. When the man realizes I’m not going anywhere, he stops and laughs.
“You should’ve run.” What he means is that he’s going to enjoy what happens next. The girl giggles nervously in the distance.
“We’ll see about that.”
His fist hits the side of my face with the force of a wrecking ball. The pain blinds me for a second or two. I can feel blood oozing from a gash in my cheekbone. I know I’m going to need stitches, so I don’t bother trying to wipe it away. When my sight returns, I can see that he’s surprised I’m still standing. I’m not surprised at all. One of the first things I ever learned was how to take a punch.
“I think you can do better than that. How about a mulligan?” I ask. He doesn’t understand. “A do-over, you douchebag.”
The fist only grazes my temple this time. I’ve unnerved him.
“Nice try,” I say. “My turn.”
I feel his nose break with my first punch. He falls shortly after the fourth. My right hand is slick, and the air reeks of blood. When I look up, I find the girl frozen in place. Her big doe eyes don’t even blink.
“Call him an ambulance,” I say. “Then find a cab and get the hell out of here.”
“You took all my money,” she says, her voice both a whisper and a whine.
“Then you’ll just have to walk,” I tell her.
• • •
I never set out to be a thief. I suppose I once had something grander in mind. But when you live on the streets, you find out that your career options are limited. You can be one of the kids who disappear with the strangers who cruise through every night. You can sell the stuff that helps those kids forget what they’ve seen. Or you can be a thief. If those choices don’t suit you, you can always be dead.
I was on a Greyhound traveling up I-95 when I discovered the gift that would save my life. I’d spent my last dime on the bus fare. My stomach was empty, and I had no way to fill it. I passed out somewhere around Charleston and woke three states later only to slip back into oblivion. Even the fear of being found unconscious and shipped right back to military school couldn’t keep me alert. Outside of DC, I emerged from a dream with my eyes on a backpack. Its owner was snoring in the seat beside me. My fingers knew exactly what they were looking for, and they found it crumpled up inside the front pouch of his bag. The twenty-dollar bill that proved to be my salvation.
By the end of the journey, I realized I could spot an unguarded handbag from yards away. I could detect the faint outline of an iPhone in the pocket of a winter coat. No Birkin bag or fanny pack was safe from my fingers. I could rob any man blind with a quick bump and a flick of my wrist. That’s when I decided to call myself Flick. I didn’t want to remember the name I was given. And seven months later, I’m still waiting for the day when I can finally forget where I got it.
I’ve been living on the Lower East Side of Manhattan since spring. I didn’t plan to stay here for more than one night. I hopped off that bus with a picture in my head and found that the slum I was seeking no longer existed. I’d spent my childhood imagining burnt-out buildings, roving gangs, and urban decay. I’d heard my father fill my brother’s ears with tales of drug dealers, hustlers, and men hardened by misery. It never occurred to me that thirty years had passed since my father left the neighborhood that he always claimed had made him a man. In his absence, the heroin-shooting galleries received a fresh coat of paint, and artists started displaying their work