That Time I Was Pickpocketed

Just-warmed by a hot mug of mulled wine, we walked through Leicester Square right after Christmas in London. The sky was drizzling on and off. Like a proper tourist I was looking up at the lights, the signs, and the landmarks. I was wearing a dress and so my iPhone was in my jacket pocket.

I know I’m an easy mark. I’ve laughed at friends who are an easy mark. I’m aware of the people around me and I don’t carry a purse most of the time. Maybe I was brazen or maybe it was some kind of Freudian test.

I felt something hit my hip and whipped around, grabbing the arm behind me. Another person rushed off and I told my partner to stop him.

These kids were maybe fourteen. The friend came back to join his buddy.

“Can I have my phone please?”

He looked up at me with big brown eyes, a too-innocent look under his floppy hair.

I held my hand out, the same way I hold my hand out at my children when I catch them with something they aren’t supposed to have.

He threw his hands up, “what? I don’t have your phone.”

I looked at the other one, using my best pissy mom-look.

“Seriously? Can you please just give me my phone back.”

They didn’t brush me off and they didn’t run away. Amateurs.

“I don’t have your phone. What are you talking about?”

“Seriously, come on guys,” I tried to look bored and annoyed, knowing how much of a pain in my butt it was going to be if my phone was really gone.

We went back and forth with their “I don’t know what you’re talking about” game.

The little guy turned his pockets inside out, showing me my phone.

“Can I just have it please,” I held my palm out, he handed me my phone and they ran off.

Then my heart started beating again. I looked at the wallpaper of my kids, rolling my eyes at myself thinking how stupid was I, thinking I could walk through tourist-central and not get hit up. Good thing they didn’t know what they were doing.