"So he cuts his ear off and gives it to his girl—hey, how'd you like that for a present, huh? An ear! Huh. So they put him in the loony bin..."
I have no qualms about this one. He strolls on, braying, blissfully unaware, with his wallet in his left back pocket. He has a large gut but almost no backside, and his wallet is pretty much aching for me to take it. I amble along behind them. Henry has a clear view as I deftly insert my thumb and forefinger into the mark's pocket and liberate the wallet. I drop back, they walk on, I pass the wallet to Henry and he shoves it into his pants as I walk ahead. I show Henry some other techniques: how to take a wallet from the inside breast pocket of a suit, how to shield your hand from view while it's inside a woman's purse, six different ways to distract someone while you take their wallet, how to take a wallet out of a backpack, and how to get someone to inadvertently show you where their money is. He's more relaxed now, he's even starting to enjoy this. Finally, I say, "Okay, now you try."
He's instantly petrified. "I can't."
"Sure you can. Look around. Find someone." We are standing in the Japanese Print Room. It's full of old ladies. "Not here." "Okay, where?"
He thinks for a minute. "The restaurant?"
We walk quietly to the restaurant. I remember this all vividly. I was totally terrified. I look over at my self and sure enough, his face is white with fear. I'm smiling, because I know what comes next. We stand at the end of the line for the garden restaurant. Henry looks around, thinking. In front of us in line is a very tall middle-aged man wearing a beautifully cut brown lightweight suit; it's impossible to see where the wallet is. Henry approaches him, with one of the wallets I've lifted earlier proffered on his outstretched hand.
"Sir? Is this yours?" says Henry softly. "It was on the floor."
"Uh? Oh, hmm, no," the man checks his right back pants pocket, finds his wallet safe, leans over Henry to hear him better, takes the wallet from Henry and opens it. "Hmm, my, you should take this to the security guards, hmm, there's quite a bit of cash in here, yes," the man wears thick glasses and peers at Henry through them as he speaks and Henry reaches around under the man's jacket and steals his wallet. Since Henry is wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt I walk behind him and he passes the wallet to me. The tall thin brown-suited man points at the stairs, explaining to Henry how to turn in the wallet. Henry toddles off in the direction the man has indicated, and I follow, overtake Henry and lead him right through the museum to the entrance and out, past the guards, onto Michigan Avenue and south, until we end up, grinning like fiends, at the Artists Cafe, where we treat ourselves to milkshakes and french fries with some of our ill-gotten gains. Afterwards we throw all the wallets in a mailbox, sans cash, and I get us a room at the Palmer House.
"So?" I ask, sitting on the side of the bathtub watching Henry brush his teeth.
" ot?" returns Henry with a mouth full of toothpaste.
"What do you think?"
He spits. "About what?"
"Pick-pocketing."
He looks at me in the mirror. "It's okay." He turns and looks directly at me. "I did it!" He grins, largely. "You were brilliant!"
"Yeah!" The grin fades. "Henry, I don't like to time travel by myself. It's better with you. Can't you always come with me?"
He is standing with his back to me, and we look at each other in the mirror. Poor small self: at this age my back is thin and my shoulder blades stick out like incipient wings. He turns, waiting for an answer, and I know what I have to tell him— me. I reach out and gently turn him and bring him to stand by me, so we are side by side, heads level, facing the mirror.
"Look." We study our reflections, twinned in the ornate gilt Palmer House bathroom splendor. Our hair is the same brown-black, our eyes slant dark and fatigue-ringed identically, we sport exact replicas of each other's ears. I'm taller and more muscular and shave. He's slender and ungainly and is all knees and elbows. I reach up and pull my hair back from my face, show him the scar from the accident. Unconsciously, he mimics my gesture, touches the same scar on his own forehead.
"It's just like mine," says my self, amazed. "How did you get it?" "The same as you. It is the same. We are the same."
A translucent moment. I didn't understand, and then I did, just like that. I watch it happen. I want to be both of us at once, feel again the feeling of losing the edges of my self, of seeing the admixture of future and present for the first time. But I'm too accustomed, too comfortable with it, and so I am left on the outside, remembering the wonder of being nine and suddenly seeing, knowing, that my friend, guide, brother was me. Me, only me. The loneliness of it.