The amusement began somewhere near the end of the flight, when my complimentary cup of ice water slid ever so cleverly, inch-by-inch down my tray and tumbled onto my lap. Somehow, I managed to sleep right through it. In time, the ice melted, creating the devastating illusion to other passengers that I had wet myself.

I awoke and asked the flight attendant for some ginger ale. A man farther down the row leaned over and informed me with a smile that I had "probably already had enough." When the attendant giggled and handed me a napkin, I realized my misfortune and decided that I would be better off spending the rest of the flight in silence.

Other passengers would point at me with a smirk on their face, making jokes to their spouses and friends that I was too far away to hear. I always imagined the most horrible things, though chances are any remarks other passengers were making were probably lame anyway. People sitting in coach could only be so clever. I had proven this fact to be true regarding myself as well during this whole unfortunate incident.

As we all filed off the plane, I thought of the vacation I had taken. My entire trip, with or without the trouble on the plane, was spent in misery. Strangely, the ice water incident was actually the first time I felt that I deserved something a little extra in life. Being the butt of everyone's jokes on the plane made me feel okay about the things that worked for me. Unfortunately, that feeling had passed by the end of the evening, just like any other similar notions had in the past.

The next morning, I woke up chewing on my bed sheets, the teeth marks and dried saliva the only proof that the section in my mouth was indeed the front end of my twisted and disheveled covers.

Lying motionless, I waited for the dizziness of the new morning to pass. The sunlight continued its slow crawl across the bedroom floor. As I thought about my day and the days that would come later, it was hard to think of anything good. My bed always seemed to be a place for unpleasant pondering. I wasn't sure whether I stayed in bed awake each morning because I wanted to contemplate such problems, or if I was just lazy, and got out of bed only to stop thinking about them.

I didn't shower or change clothes. I just ate breakfast wearing my usual torn gray t-shirt with the green rim and tattered pants that were worn so badly that the wide cuffs, which hung low along my shoes, were in shreds.

As I ate, a small shard of plaster dropped from the ceiling, shattering into a chalky dust on the bare concrete floor. The sun had risen fully now, and I could see the thin cloud of pasty-colored plaster particles floating upward in the ray of sunlight. I didn't mind the place, though. It was low cost and I had low standards. Finished eating, I walked over to the phone to call Jane.

Jane lived in conditions worse than mine. Her phone was rotary, for Christ's sake. I, of course, brought this fact up often.

"Hey Jane, how's the rotary spinning?"

"Like a friggin' champ, Poes. Thanks for asking. You up for going in to work today?"

"Not really," I said, "but I have to make a living."

"Well, hurry up or we'll be late."

We were late. It was almost one in the afternoon, and the lunch hour would be over shortly. As soon as I got to Jane's, she and I rushed to the square. This was when our work began.

We liked to watch from small coffee shops next to patio restaurants or other open places. Sipping our coffee, we kept an eye out for potential clients.

That one's too scrubby. That one's pants are too tight. And his pants are too well covered. That one doesn't look like he even has any money. This one's a businessman, but he has too long of a jacket on his suit.

Then we spotted him.

"Baggy pants, big pockets," said Jane. "Perfect."

"I'll take this one," I said.

I started roughly 15 feet ahead, like I always do. After a few steps towards the client, I turned backwards, as if I were waving goodbye to Jane. Then, as I turned frontward again, I kept my head sideways, toward the right, so I could still see things in front of me out of the corner of my eye. I always keep my watch on my right arm, despite the fact that I'm right handed, because when we hit, I'll want my good hand outstretched.

I was roughly five feet away and two to the side when I checked my watch and changed direction suddenly. The big thing is to always make sure to hit them fully. If I only graze them, I'll miss my opportunity.

It was an extended version of the bump, really. When the client got close enough, I collided lightly with him, bumping the bottom of his back pocket with my knee. The large back pockets of baggy jeans, combined with the knee bump allowed for easy removal of this particular client's wallet. I had put on an extremely baggy sweatshirt, which allowed me to deposit the wallet directly down my sleeve without him even noticing. Then, keeping my arms slightly upward, I turned to apologize, making sure the wallet didn't fall out. After politely brushing off his shoulders, I turned and disappeared into a crowd, much like I had after the night on the plane. I nabbed three wallets while at the airport, just to spite those sadistic passengers. I was starting to feel bad about all of it, though.

Thieving turned an impressive profit for me, but the thought of being such a backwards Robin Hood played over and over in my mind like a bad radio tune. The idea of taking from others who worked harder than me soured more with every new client I dealt with.

The room was tense. Jane didn't like what I was saying and things weren't about to get any better.

"I'm just tired of it," I said.

"Why" It's a piece of cake," said Jane.

"I'm having conscience checks every time I do it now."

"Don't give me that crap, Poes. Do you remember your last job at the gas station? John Poesner, poverty-stricken cashier. Every day you'd come home and every day you'd have nothing to show for it. You're past that now. You're making your own wages on your own time clock. Whatever cheesy moral gut check you're having to deal with, it's better than the crap you used to do before this."

"I'm not so sure it is."

With this, Jane quickly stood up and started setting another pot of coffee. When she got angry, her eyes and her glare seemed to match her long, dark red hair. More of a deep maroon color, really. The color always reminded me of the fuzzy toilet seat cover in my parent's bathroom. She'd be pretty pissed if I ever told her about that little analogy, though.

Jane wasn't in the mood for coffee. In fact, she wouldn't even drink another cup of it. The coffeemaker was on and the pot was being made, but only because she was angry. The task just gave her a reason not to look at me.

She stood over the counter, her hands spread apart as she leaned heavily on them. I knew what was coming next.

"You came back today with $173," said Jane, angrily. "That's half of $346 from nabbing four different wallets, two I did and two you did."

"I don't really care about the money," I said.

"You will when you have to work eight hours a day for five days a week, instead of three hours a day for three days each week," she said.

"What would I do differently" I just sit around being worthless all day. At least with a job I'd feel like I did something."

"God dammit, Poes! You just came back from a vacation, half of which you paid for with one good snag of some guy's wallet on payday. What exactly are you missing?"

"I did the same thing on vacation that I do here. Nothing," I said. "Absolutely nothing."

"Your complaining would make most people sick off their ass," said Jane.

"Most jealousy is misplaced," I said.

Jane grabbed her bag and walked out of the apartment in a huff. As the door slammed, sounding as if it were about to crumble off its hinges, I wondered exactly what the hell I was doing.

My pickpocket job was easy, but I didn't like it anymore. I felt unemployed. I felt like I should be punching a timecard and coming home wishing I was dead every day, like everyone else. It wouldn't be the best position in life, but for some reason it seemed more right than this. With this, I just stayed at home wishing I were dead.

Jane had cooled off and I had wised up enough to not talk about it anymore. I could tell she had been stressed by what I had said the day before. Her cream-colored grandma-style sweater and tight blue jeans reeked of cigarette smoke.

"Set?" she asked.

"Let's go," I said. "I'll even take the first one."

We quickly spotted a man walking with his daughter. The bulge in his left coat pocket tipped us off.

I did my usual routine, except with this guy I really knocked him hard, so that I had to grab his coat to keep him from falling. It worked, and in the confusion, I was easily able to sneak his wallet out.

Granted, there were other ways to nab wallets, but I've almost always done it this way. I think I partly just enjoy hitting people.

Unfortunately, I didn't enjoy it this time. I had almost knocked his poor daughter flat on her face in the street, and the portly middle-aged man looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

My apology was actually sincere for once, which made it all the more believable, but I still felt bad. It was like the feeling you get the first time you steal. You find yourself humming or singing a song to yourself afterwards; doing anything to keep from feeling guilty.

I'd been doing this for two years now, and for some reason I still felt like some ten year-old who'd mistakenly put a box of Red Hots in his pocket and walked out of a store.

I was supposed to go three blocks over, stand for five minutes and then head back. I was supposed to go back to where Jane was sitting. I was supposed to give her half of the money, like she had always done for me. I did none of these things.

Half from fear and half out of necessity, I began trotting at a quick pace. Two blocks over, a long way down, past the street that headed back to Jane. Backtracking.

I wasn't sure why I was doing such a thing. It went against everything that I had learned and taught back to others over the years I'd been doing this. Any sensible pickpocket would curse me for it; it was something that could very well ruin me. But I was no longer thinking about pick pocketing. This was about getting out.

Rushing through the masses of people, all of whom looked the same, I felt as if the world itself had faded to a blur. I was running now, as fast as I could, almost as if the people I were plowing through were a forest of department store mannequins. The streets were thick with people during these busy lunch hours, and I felt claustrophobic, with all the crowds seeming to swarm closer to me as I ran, like a thick fog does in the night. I was running; it may have been wrong to Jane, but I couldn't help it.

I finally turned and cut back to the main street, about five blocks or so down from the coffee shop where Jane was. I saw the man walking with his daughter.

"Excuse me sir," I said. "I think you dropped your wallet back there where we bumped into each other. The girl I was with at the coffee shop found it. Apparently, you disappeared before she could call you back, so she walked a block up to the bus stop where I was and passed the duty of returning it on to me instead."

The man looked inside his wallet, counting the bills. Satisfied, he smiled.

"You seemed to be in quite the hurry," he said.

"Well, I was trying to make the bus, which I would have, but I can still take a cab and make it into work on time. Unfortunately, she works a half hour farther away than I do, so she would've been late if I didn't do it for her."

The man thanked me profusely for my kindness, handing me a $20 bill from his wallet.

"Here's some money for the cab," he said. "You're well worth it."

The man walked off waving goodbye, his daughter by his side doing the same. I stood in a stupor, staring at the $20 he had given me.

When I walked into the coffee shop, Jane asked me what took so long. I looked at her, smiled, and placed the $20 bill on the table. As I turned and walked away, I told her I'd be over at the gas station filling out an application if she needed me.