A scream comes from beyond;

my gut seizes in apprehension as I prepare to flee. I know that scream, the scream of indignation and anger.

“Hey, kid, what’re you doing,” shouts a voice.

“Not good,” I think to myself, “time to go.”

A second later, a grasping hand lurches towards me, but I jut forward enough to avoid his clasp.

“Com’re,” the voice shouts as I duck, then dart around fellow denizens before dashing off. I didn’t notice the man’s face, just his large fleshy paw that I hope never to see again. As my legs sprint towards escape, I hear the voice again, “Hey, come here,” followed by, “Wait ‘till I get my hands on you.”

“Sorry, I can’t stay and chat, but I’m late, I’m late for a very important…”

I stopped talking and glanced back confirming what I knew already–he is chasing after me. People pack the sidewalks, so I rush into the street dodging horses, carriages, stray dogs and all comers my way. After thirty seconds, I look back and see that despite the man’s large bulk, he is quick, fueled by rage and close behind.

The comic element of this scene is that in this one instance I’m innocent. Innocence will not prevent a beating if caught, but I am innocent. This one instance is the key phrase. There have been times when I’ve discovered someone’s wallet in my pocket as if by magic. All right, the magic involved my hands, lots of training and an oblivious sucker. You might say I’m a thief, but I’m also a kid forced into this so cut me a little slack.

As I run, I dodge between trolleys and start laughing. I’m a true Brooklyn Trolley Dodger but nowhere near Eastern Park*.
Eastern Park is where the Brooklyn Trolley Dodger (founded in 1883) played baseball. The team gained the nickname Trolley Dodger because trolleys surrounded Eastern Park and one needed to dodge trolleys to reach the stadium. The team later shortened the name to Brooklyn Dodger before moving to Los Angeles in 1958. Despite there being no trolleys to dodge in L.A., the team kept the name and are know as The Dodgers to this day.

Dodging trolleys is dangerous, and if I run into one or if one runs into me, the trolley wins every time. I’m dodging trolleys against my better judgment to avoid this disgruntled gentleman. I once saw a man mangled by a trolley, not a pretty sight. So out of consideration for my readers who might be eating lunch, I will dispense with the details of the aforementioned accident. Please do not think my mentioning a trolley accident is foreshadowing. Nor is this anything like the idea of Chekov's gun. Do not worry because Chekov will not be firing a gun or operating a trolley. Was it wrong to bring up Chekov if he does not appear in this story?

Sorry, I'm dodging trolleys, and this is distracting me. I’m good at dodging trolleys and do not plan on meeting my demise by such a lumbering creature. Besides, what publisher would sell a book so short? Or would one fill the book with blank pages? One could fill the remaining pages with rubbish such as Wombats win world war wearing Wolverhampton woollies. Then wham. The End. Wombats win world war wearing Wolverhampton woollies. Wombats win world war wearing Wolverhampton woollies. Wombats win world war wearing Wolverhampton woollies. Wombats win world war wearing Wolverhampton woollies. Just joking.

I hope my newfound friend is adept at dodging trolley, so he does not become another fatal statistic. I keep running, and after another thirty seconds, I glance back, unable to believe my eyes: he’s gaining on me. Maybe he plays for the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers. That might explain why he is in such good shape and able to dodge trolleys.

For the record, I would never pick the pocket of such a man. He looks too athletic, and that increases my odds of being caught and beaten. My one unchanging goal is: never to get caught. So, I look for men that are fat or drunk or both, not muscular and fast like this gentleman.

As I’m running down the street going north, I see a trolley headed south. I run across the street, waiting until the last moment before running in front of the trolley. The trolley then hides me from view. I move south with the trolley for a block before darting to the sidewalk and mixing with the crowd. This trick always works, as I’m now ensconced in the crowd flowing south, away from him as he searches for me. Ten more seconds and I’ll have disappeared forever. I glance back a last time and see him running towards me. I’m confident he cannot see me and is running towards me, hoping to flush me out. If I was new to this game, I might panic, but since this is old hat for me, I keep walking with the crowd. 

This man pursuing me never bothered shouting, “Stop, thief.” He knows such shouts do little good aside from wasting breath. Oliver would have made a clean getaway had he lived here instead of in London. Unless, of course, he was slow and in this business, there is no safety for the slow. Some shout when chasing me, and if anyone offers assistance, a quick knee to the groin rectifies the situation. After a moment of prostration by the other party, I’m released so I might go on my way. In the rare occasion that such release is not forthcoming, as perhaps a sumo wrestler, eunuch, woman or any other unsavory character unaffected by my charms grabs me, I resort to something called judo. This training helps me break free of any grasp and sets me upon my way as sure as a greased pig in a wrasslin’ contest.

Why won’t this man go away? What’s the matter with him? Doesn’t he understand that he’ll never catch me? Besides, I didn’t do anything to him­­–at least this time. If he doesn’t settle down, I’ll find out where he lives and pick his pocket every day until not even lint remains. As I’m squeezing my way through the crowd, I plow into someone and fall to the ground. Then a voice says, “Hey, watch where you’re going.” I look up and see a corpulent, red-faced man in a brown twill suit with a bowler hat holding a gold handled cane.

“It’s you,” the man says, “Come here you mangy rat.”

This is not my day­–I have one man chasing me that I cannot shake, and now I run into someone whose pocket I have picked. I hope I can get out of this mess in one piece.

The fat man swings his cane, striking me on the right shoulder. Ow! That’s gonna leave a mark. He swings again, but this time I’m ready, and in two swift motions, I dodge his blow before kicking his knee. The dual actions of his swinging cane and my kick throw him off balance. For a moment I think he might topple onto me, but-at-the-last-second he catches himself with his cane. The cane stops his fall, but being bent over, he tries grabbing me­–an attempt that earns him a swift kick in his hand.

“Ouch!”

“Stop being a baby. You hit me with a cane, and I didn’t cry,” I said as I pick myself up and duck his grasp.

When I’m back on my feet, I notice that the first man has somehow spotted me. He is three seconds away, so I wait one second before I take another step. Right as the first man is about to grab me, I duck, and the sprinting man cannot stop in time and crashes into the fat man. The situation works as I expect. As the fat man is falling, he loses his balance, causing him to throw his cane into the air. I catch his cane with my right hand and in the same motion let my left-hand swing around into the man’s suit pocket and I relieve him of his wallet. Since both men are falling, neither is in a position to stop me. With one wallet and one cane, I run towards a passing trolley that, once boarded, ensures my escape. As I board the trolley, I sing,

Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish Ladies,

Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain;

For we've received orders for to sail for old England,

But we hope in a short time to see you again.

When I finish, I wave goodbye as the men disappear from sight. Man, I’m getting too old for this. I need to find a more salubrious line of work. Perhaps starting my story in medias res is impolite, but such unforeseen events are beyond my control. Besides, beginning at the beginning is boring. Would you like me to begin this story with…Once upon a time, years before you were born, there was this boy? Y……….a……….w……….n. I’m falling asleep already.

Now is a good time to warn you that if this start to my story is too egregious or if in any way I have offended your sensitivities towards the English language with my insipid grammar juxtaposing fulsome clichés, please put the book down. I do not want you to have an aneurysm (as I cannot pay for your hospital stay). My story will progress with the passing of pages, but my skill as a writer will remain static. Caveat lector*!
Caveat lector- let the reader beware, although caveat emptor (let the buyer beware) is more apt for those of you wishing to buy this book. ­­–The Editors

Returning to our story, you should know I was born an orphan. Therefore, I resided in an orphanage, which is less than an ideal place to develop mellifluous prose. I recommend Plutarch, Herodotus or Cæsar’s Commentaries if my writing offends. For those of you still reading after this warning, please sign the appropriate waivers, then enjoy.

The problem with orphanages is that despite meaning well, they are horrible places. They are filled with miserable, smelly, unkempt creatures called orphans. My room resembled a military barracks that housed sixty children. Before I mastered my role in the orphanage, the doors closed for lack of funding. As bad as the orphanage was, at least I had food and shelter, which was more than I had living on the streets. The orphanage closed in the fall. I somehow survived the winter, although an older friend who looked out for me did not. Looking back now, I’m unsure how I survived.

That winter I do not remember eating, sleeping or finding warm shelter. All I remember is the cold as the days blended into one. In the middle of winter, as the wind bellowed and esurient snowfall rendered me blind, I collided with a man. The man looked down, and despite my condition, I noticed a smile. His smile was not one of happiness at seeing an old friend; rather this was the opportune smile of cupidity. Although disconcerting, this smile is still more welcoming than the anger I expected.

He looked at me and said, “You look cold; you should come with me. I have a warm home with hot food.”

I was young but knew his smile signified trouble. Yet, I was hungry, tired and my teeth could not stop chattering. By this point, the weather was so bad that following him was difficult, and I grabbed the back of his coat so I could keep up.

When we arrived at his house, I could not believe my luck. His house was not a tenement slum in The Five Points or the Lower East Side, but a beautiful home. The inside was as beautiful as the outside, and I thought I was either dreaming or in heaven. We entered through the back into the kitchen and once inside, his cook made me a bowl of vegetable soup.

When I finished my bowl of soup, I pressed my luck and asked, “Please, sir, I want some more.”

The cook looked at me with surprise before smiling and filling my bowl again. When I finished my third bowl of soup, the cook showed me to a bed in the basement. Once my head touched pillow, exhaustion sped me to sleep.

When I woke, I noticed my bed was not the only one in the room. The basement reminded me of a mini orphanage with beds and a small chest at the foot of the bed. In the middle of the room was a wood stove. Why were there so many beds? I went upstairs and wandered into the kitchen, again hungry. The cook gave me more bread and soup and went to find Mr. Mortimer, the man who saved me from the weather.

I assume Mr. Mortimer had a first name, but I never heard it. My guess as to why no one knew his name is that he hated it. Anyone who heard my theory agreed, which led to a fantastic game of speculation. Who could guess his first name? His name must be Horton or Horatio or Heraclitus or Hippopotami. I'm not sure why all my ideas started with the letter H. Regardless, I never solved the mystery despite my best efforts.

Mr. Mortimer met me in the kitchen and asked if I wanted to stay.

“Yes, I would love to stay,” I said.

“But if I let you stay you must do whatever I ask.”

“Yes, I promise,” I said, despite having no idea what he might ask of me.

I have often wondered about the height of Mr. Mortimer, because at the moment as he looked down at me, he seemed a giant. As near as I can calculate, he must have been at least six foot, but not over six feet three inches. He had light brown hair, broad shoulders, a fit body and a smile that made him who he was–a con artist and thief.

“How would you like having other children live here?”

He believed this question would make me happy. Little did he know I already had too much experience with other children. Since I knew the answer, he wanted I said, “That would be great.”

That night I dreamed that all the children from the orphanage lived with me in the basement as cramped as sardines in a tin. The next day, I started my studies, which included reading, writing, and arithmetic (or maths for those of you living on the other side of the pond. Btw, math is already plural.) I learned other skills not taught in school, such as climbing, picking locks and pockets. Over the next month, five boys arrived, filling the remaining beds. Our ages varied from six to twelve, but we were all orphans.

After a month of training, I practiced my craft on the denizens of New York. Mr. Mortimer’s greatest talent was not as a safecracker or con artist, but as a purveyor of information. He needed access to a single soiree to abscond with enough information to keep us working for a year. Women love telling secrets, and men live to brag. Knowing this meant that others had no chance to withstand his flattery and charm. He knew all that was going on in the City by ingratiating himself to the wealthy.

Despite his ability to charm and ingratiate himself to others, Mr. Mortimer was demanding and someone I feared rather than loved. Meals were often denied us, and he beat us when we failed him. Despite such cruelty, the other boys admired him. We were of no significance to him aside from being objects that made him money. If he cared about us, then what we did and his abusive ways might have been bearable.

Instead, every day, I woke with a knot in my stomach. We all wanted to please him, but I was the sole one who did so to avoid a beating. Everyone else feared to disappoint him and felt the beatings well deserved. The irony of this situation is that he liked me best, as I brought in the most money, but I despised him most.

 I was the leader of our group named The Gotham Sock Monkeys (abbreviated as G.S.M.). I have no idea what this means aside from the obvious fact that we live in Gotham. Beyond that, I haven’t a clue. Are we supposed to be monkeys who wear socks? Are we a subspecies of the three-striped night monkey (Aotus trivirgatus) called the three-striped sock monkey of the night (Soccus aotus trivirgatus)? Was this our way of showing approbation for both socks and monkeys?**The three-striped night monkey (Aotus trivirgatus), also known as northern night monkey or northern owl monkey, is a species of night monkeys found in Venezuela and north-central Brazil. Soccus aotus trivirgatus is an imaginary type of monkey using the Latin origin (soccus) of the word sock and aotus trivirgatus.The three-striped night monkey (Aotus trivirgatus), also known as northern night monkey or northern owl monkey, is a species of night monkeys found in Venezuela and north-central Brazil. Soccus aotus trivirgatus is an imaginary type of monkey using the Latin origin (soccus) of the word sock and aotus trivirgatus.

I suggested Loki’s League of Larcenist (3L). The name lost on a vote because someone said Loki was in league with lemurs. I tell you the poppycock some people believe. After deciding on the name Gotham Sock Monkeys, someone insisted on a Latin motto. I offered numerous suggestions such as picus inter escas and auribus teneo lupum but alas, they chose celerius quam asparagi cocuntur*
In Norse mythology, Loki is a mischievous, often evil god that causes trouble.
The actual name of the group is the Gotham Street Monkeys. The Kid is angry, as his suggestion of Loki’s League of Larcenist was not adopted. The phrase sock monkey makes no sense, as sock monkeys did not appear until the 1930’s. – The Editors
Picus Inter Escas- A woodpecker among fodder. Motto attributed to Pope Nicholas IV (1288-1292). We have no idea what this means.
auribus teneo lupum- Hold a wolf by the ears. A proverb, indicating a dangerous situation as both holding and letting go of the wolf is harmful.
Celerius quam asparagi cocuntur- Quicker than cooking asparagus. A quote attributed to Augustus Caesar and means something accomplished quickly. We can never remember how long asparagus takes to cook, but surely longer than two shakes (of a lamb’s tail).

Enough reminiscing about the past, let’s focus on the present and my unprofitable day. Not counting today’s misadventure where I magically ended up with a wallet and a cane, I have not done well. I’m not sure what might happen tonight, since Mr. Mortimer is unpredictable. Based on experience, I will receive a beating and go without dinner. At least I will sleep inside since tonight will be cold. I know what you are thinking­–why not stay out until I have the money I need? First, in this weather, people stay inside after dark. Second, I have a curfew, so Mr. Mortimer does not think I ran off.

On arriving at Mr. Mortimer’s beautiful house, I’m informed that Mr. Mortimer wishes to see me. I ambled towards his study, looking for any potential distractions to slow my journey. He does not yet know about my unprofitable day, but I cannot delay a beating forever. When I arrive at the door of the study, I knock and await a reply. After waiting a few moments, I open the door and see he is not there. I enter the room and look around.

The study has a large oak desk surrounded by bookshelves. Fine leather-bound books line the bookshelves. These books are here, so Mr. Mortimer looks educated. This despite the fact that I have never seen him pull a single book from the shelf. As I look around, I notice that all the books are dusty except the five to the left of his desk.

I cannot believe what I’m seeing. He is breaking a golden rule, a rule he taught all of us. If you have a hidden safe, make sure the hiding place does not attract attention. Make sure you dust all your books, so the five books that hide a safe (and are never dusty due to use) do not stick out. I remove the five books, or rather the spines of five books glued together, and discover his safe.

Once I moved the spines, I hear someone in the hall. Next, I hear Mr. Mortimer’s voice and the door handle turn. I scramble to return the books to their proper place, but time is too limited, and I know he will catch me in the act. My heart is racing as I try inventing an excuse. Can I pretend I am dusting his bookshelves? I’m sleeping outside for sure when he sees me like this. Right as the door opens, another voice calls out, notifying Mr. Mortimer of a visitor. The voice gives me precious extra seconds to finish before walking towards the door. After what I discovered, I do not want to be anywhere near his desk. I listen at the door. I hear voices down the hall until footsteps carry those talking into another room.

Now is my chance. I open the door, take a furtive glance around, checking that the hall is empty, and exit the room. Finding his safe has been a momentous discovery since now I have a way of escaping this place. When I open the safe, a certainty given enough time, the money hidden within will provide the means for a new life. Tonight, once everyone is asleep, I will work on his safe.

Even though Mr. Mortimer is busy tonight, we keep a tight routine and are in bed with the lights out by nine o’clock. After thirty minutes, everyone appears asleep, but even if everyone is, I know Mr. Mortimer is awake. He enjoys staying up late, so I have at least three hours before I go anywhere.

I have a small pocket watch that Mr. Mortimer allowed me to keep, and I listen to the second-hand tick past. When a person is waiting for time to pass, seconds seem like minutes, minutes like hours, and hours like any cliché you can imagine. I’m looking at my watch, staring at each second, and I realize I have 10,800 seconds until I can look around. 10,800 seconds is a long time but seconds always move forward and with patience, the time passes. 

When the time comes, I move towards the door while glancing at the other sleeping boys. Walking up the stairs is my biggest challenge. The stairs are made of wood and creak as if moaning out to the dead. Despite such noise, I am adept at moving in silence, as these are what we call our “practice” stairs. Stairs and wooden floors are the two biggest dangers inside a house since both make unexpected noise. To master such problems, we practice on these stairs, the noisiest stairs known to man. As putting salt on a bird’s tail makes him yours so ascending these stairs without a sound make these stairs (and all stairs) yours.

Regardless of my skill, I’m concerned someone might wake and wonder what I’m doing. There is no excuse for being dressed and on the stairs after lights out. When I reach the top of the stairs, I bring out a lock pick and start on the door. Mr. Mortimer never trusted us and always locked the door leading from the basement to the house. What makes this so funny is that he taught all of us how to pick locks. This lock is the one I have opened at least fifty times since this lock is what we use for practice.  The lock resists for less than ten seconds before giving into my persuasion. I open the door and peek out into the hallway. Looking left, then right, I see only the empty hallway and unlit rooms. I close the door and lock the bolt from inside the hall, an act that takes longer than picking the lock.

Mr. Mortimer takes good care of his house, so none of the floorboards make a sound. My heart is another matter and is pounding with such violence that I’m afraid I will wake everyone. I must admit I’m nervous, so I remind myself that I have done other, more dangerous jobs. Breaking into a house runs the risk of being shot. In this case, I do not believe Mr. Mortimer would shoot his helper, but I shudder to think what he might do instead.

Mr. Mortimer locks the study, but I have practiced on this door as well. I need less than ten seconds before gaining entry into the room. After I enter, I close and lock the door. Mr. Mortimer sleeps upstairs. His manservant's room is in the back of the house. Neither will hear me. I open the curtains. The moonlight illuminates the room. I reach forward and remove the faux books before glancing at the name on the safe. The company claims their safe unbreakable. This claim is a clever advertising gimmick for selling more safes. I am not an expert on metal, so I do not know if this safe could be blasted open, but I do know in time I can open any safe. The main obstacle to cracking a safe is time. With time, even the world’s biggest chowderhead can break into a safe.

As I turn the dial on the safe, I realize the amount of time this job might require. Lucky for me, time is a commodity I have in abundance. If I do not open the safe tonight, I can come back tomorrow or every night for the next two years if necessary. Before I work on the safe in earnest, I try one quick combination. Amazingly, the safe opens. Mr. Mortimer’s vanity is his undoing. The combination is his birthday. How do I know his birthday? I know because he makes us give him gifts. Mr. Mortimer’s birthday is his favorite day of the year. In case you are wondering, his birthday is September 13th, but I won’t tell you the year so you won’t try to break in.

I open the safe and find a good deal of money in the form of paper currency and gold coins. There are also several valuable pieces of jewelry, but I have no interest in those. The money in the safe is enough to last until I decide on a new career. I place the money in a small pouch that I stuff in my jacket before closing the safe. I know I’m stealing, but I have no other means of escape.

I look out into the hall, making sure no one is around, and exit the room. From there, I exit the front door, locking the door as I leave. The darkness outside reminds me I’m walking through the city in the middle of the night. I should have waited until I developed a plan, but I don’t need no stinking plan. That last part is not true, but I cannot wait another second before leaving. Now that I’m free, where should I go? I cannot stay in New York City, as Mr. Mortimer will find me. Wherever I go must be a place too far away for him even to look. Mars would be good, but not a viable option. After living in the cold my whole life some place warm sounds wonderful and West seems best. Mr. Mortimer told tales of the West, and I see myself having similar adventures.