pickpocket-drawingMy first run-in with a pickpocket happened in the most innocent of places — an outdoor fruit and vegetable market on Second Avenue. A finicky shopper when it comes to fresh veggies, I was giving some red peppers the old eagle eye, when a nearby shopper suddenly leaned in closer to pick up a pepper in the rear. This action shifted her body closer to mine– so much closer I went on immediate alert. With few shoppers and tons of empty space around us, there seemed no reason for this young woman to plant herself within inches of me. Uncomfortably crowded, I immediately stepped away, putting more space between us.

At that moment I didn’t know if she was up to something or from a culture whose concept of appropriate space between people was different than mine. She was quite young and snappily dressed, a little too snappily to be out on a mundane food run. But she seemed intent on her veggie selection, so I didn’t give her further thought.

A few minutes later as I moved over to the banana display, another shopper, a stout, gray-haired woman in a sleeveless cotton housedress suddenly cried out, “Mine pocketbook!”  Wild eyed and distraught, she dug her fist in her empty dress pocket and bellowed again, “Mine pocketbook! Where’s mine pocketbook?”  Her attention instantly swerved to the only other shopper in her vicinity, the snappily dressed young woman who was now standing a few feet away busily examining some artichokes. All innocence and unconcerned, she kept her attention on her artichokes as the old woman blasted up to her and, in an accusing voice, yelled, “Where’s mine pocketbook?”

With no way to ignore the combative mama screeching in her ear, the young woman finally looked up, her face exuding innocence.

Having none of it, the old lady screamed angrily, “Where’s mine pocketbook? What you do with it?” The young woman backed away, now wearing a surprised look that said, “Why ever are you yelling at innocent me? I have nothing to do with this”

But she was no match for the senior’s determined attack.  Advancing on her till they were toe to toe, the old woman grabbed the left front of the young woman’s jacket, and jerked it open, yelling, “Where you put mine pocketbook?”  Aggressively she patted down the woman’s T-shirt, searching for her “pocketbook”.

As the old woman went to grab the right jacket flap and I wondered how the heck a bulky pocketbook could be hidden under such a skinny jacket, a large wallet suddenly materialized in the young woman’s hand. Detached, almost disdainfully, she threw it across the artichokes. While the old lady scooped up her “pocketbook,” the young woman barreled from the store, dashed a few yards up the street and jumped into a waiting, double-parked car. Before the door was fully closed, the car zoomed up the block and disappeared.

This incident happened sometime during the eighties when pickpockets cruised the city as freely as pigeons.

Have you yourself ever been the victim of a pickpocket or seen one in action?

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