The Scam
By Samuel Merrin
“Cold outside today.”
Charlie reached a rogue hand out from underneath his heavy quilt, slowly, out of necessity rather than any kind of real desire to do so. It was fucking cold, for lack of a better word. He repeated that choice word a few times as he stepped out of bed and padded toward the bathroom in his bare feet. Upon reaching the bathroom, he reached for the mascara he kept on a shelf above the sink. Next to the toothpaste. Unscrewing the tube methodically, careful to brush off any stray black flakes before he applied the wand to his lashes, Charlie hummed softly to himself.
After brushing his teeth, Charlie’s eyes panned the hardwood floor of his studio apartment. Crumbs, shoes, but where—oh, there, in the corner. Crumpled up, as usual. He should invest in an iron, probably. Another day, when there was more time. He was late enough as it is.
Throwing on the burka took just seconds, that was always a plus. This time he wore pajamas underneath, and some sensible walking shoes. He had learned, from the last time. Details were everything.
He had to run, often. Run to the subway, run from the subway, run towards people, away. He spent most of his time, when he wasn’t sleeping, running. The running made him tired, and the sleeping revived him. It was a cycle.
It had been easier before, with the money, with the food, and the comfort and the heat and the clothes and the identity he had lost before he ruined it all. How had he ruined it, again? He knew the steps, in chronological order, of how he had ruined it, and how he could have changed each individual step incrementally to alter the whole thing, and then he wouldn’t be here, bedraggled and in constant motion. He would love a rest from the whole thing. But now wasn’t the time to think about that.
First, he pushed. He had tried being sly, before. Stealthily sliding a hand to reach a wallet in someone’s back pocket, purse, fanny pack if he was in certain tourist areas. Force seemed to work better, now, even if the force seemed accidental. He pushed them, confused them, robbed them, and sauntered away.
Even with all his talk of running, sauntering was a more apt description to his getaway method of choice. Sauntering didn’t attract attention, but it did convey a sense of confidence that was necessary in theft. People needn’t approach a confident man. Especially a confident man impersonating a cloaked, cosmetically-inclined nomadic Bedouin Muslim female.
So he was a pick-pocketer, so what? So he had lost his original fortune, the one he had stumbled upon with significant notoriety. The downfall of the factory had been well-covered by the press as well—another reason for the burka. A costume was helpful for anyone on the run.
Charlie Bucket was no exception.