The Pickpocket and the Tourist

The Pickpocket and the Tourist

(A short story by Tino Belarmino Castillo)

They saw their target. A tourist on the bus. An Asian guy.  A gentle faced Asian guy. He had with him a trolley luggage and a backpack.  They immediately hopped on the bus through the front entrance so they could make their way to the middle where their target was standing in the aisle. 

The Asian tourist saw them approach. Two italian looking men, wearing heavy jackets who seemed to find the crowded bus too hot and stifling in the winter time. They stood next to him; too close to him. Had it not for his luggage standing in the way, one of the men could have been pressing his body against his. The other man attempted to open the window to get some air but to no avail. The tourist tried to help as a good gesture, but the window was just too difficult to open. So, he stopped. When he stopped, he noticed what was going on. 

The two men were pickpockets. The one standing too close to the tourist's luggage was the hit man. A sense of presence of mind came to the tourist. He had the inkling that the hit man may already be going through his stuff inside his backpack that was laid on top of his luggage; as it was covered beyond his sight by the hit man's jacket. He remembered that he had his small digital camera in the front pocket of his backpack. It was not very valuable but the pictures in them that he took while touring Rome were precious to him. So he slipped his right hand in the pocket very carefully beyond the sight of the hit man just to hold on to his digital camera. 

The hit man's left hand was already inside the backpack pocket. Each of their hands was on opposite ends. The tourist waited. He knew that the hit man would eventually find his way to his hand. He didn't feel any fear or tension. He already got hold of the camera in his hand. Anything else that was in the pocket was of no importance to him. 

The hit man started groping. Sure enough, he got hold of the tourist's hand. It was warm but it didn't occur to him what it was. The tourist was relaxed. He felt the warmth of the hit man's hand. At that very instant something happened to both of them.

The tourist felt a sudden surge of compassion when he felt the hit man's hand. He felt the goodness in him. So, he turned his head, in confusion, to look at the hit man. The hit man, who was looking for clues if the tourist was aware of what was going on, also turned to look at the tourist's face. Their eyes met the same way their hands connected. There was an instant emotional bond between the two of them. It was as if they spoke with each other with the hit man saying, "Oh, I am sorry," and the tourist saying, "that's ok."  But there were no words that came out of each other's mouth. They just understood each other and they felt that universal brotherhood between the two of them.

That certain peace and human connection went on for a few seconds as if they were in a trance. That was an unexpected nice feeling for the tourist who knew what was going on and a disconcerting moment for the hit man who felt a sense of joy that was totally out of place considering what he was up to. It was a nice moment for the two of them until, the accomplice of the hit man spoke. He said in italian something like, "so?" The hit man suddenly snapped out of his trance and replied in italian, "there is nothing there," but in the back of his mind he felt he got something.

The two pickpockets have done it several times. They have orchestrated their act precisely such that by the time the bus pulled over the next stop, they have already done their deed. When the bus stopped, the accomplice nudged the hit man to get off. They walked away without looking around.

The unsuccessful attempt was nothing to be sad about for them. They could immediately hunt for their next victim in the next bus. It was part of their excitement in life. It was part of their living. They couldn't think of another way of life that would make them feel that sense of triumph after a successful attempt. There was nothing like seeing in their hands, the product of their skills and expertise, as they divide it between the two of them. Whenever they would be satisfied of what they got for the day, either one of them would say with pride, "It is time to go home."

The day before the encounter with the Asian tourist, the hit man went to church. It was a habit he would do on Sundays to ask forgiveness for his sins and to ask God to save his soul in the afterlife. He knew that pickpocketing was not something God would approve of, but he just couldn't resist the adrenaline rush he would get from it. Besides, he wouldn't want to disappoint his accomplice friend. He prayed hard to God that Sunday to help him change his ways.

While walking away from the bus where the Asian tourist was, the hit man realized what he got. There was this strange but familiar desire in him to be good. He stopped walking and grabbed the shoulder of his friend. The accomplice stopped and turned around to look at the hit man. There was a glow in the hit man's face that he never saw before. He asked in Italian,  "what's the matter" and the hit man replied with joy in his heart, "It is time to go home."

The bus drove away and the tourist took another look at the two men. He couldn't believe what just happened. He too was confused but he felt a sense of bliss.  What was supposed to be traumatic turned out to be a good memory. He was certain that some supernatural event just happened and he had nothing to do with it. He was just part of it. In effect, another human soul had been changed with just a look and a touch but not a single word was spoken.  

The tourist need not know that the hit man's life was changed. Knowing about it would not make any difference. He already had his share of good feeling from just being a participant in that divine intervention. That mystical experience was worth more than anything in his life.

The end.

Five Times A Day

(A Short Story)

By Tino Belarmino Castillo

He taught me to say goodbye five times a day. First upon waking up; second, before eating lunch; third, when the shadows of the trees become long; fourth, when the sun has been wrapped by darkness and fifth, before falling asleep. He made me believe that when a moment walks out, it is gone forever. Whatever there is, in one moment, it will not be the same the next second. We never stay the same so we have to remember the moments and say goodbye to them. I believed it without him asking me to believe. I said my goodbyes five times a day just like how he did it. We stored everything in our minds and goodbyes became a form of keeping, not letting go. We kept a lot of things as we went on with our lives.

I was 13 years old. He was 36 and unmarried. I was his son. It didn’t feel like I was his son. The people I call Mama and Papa until now are his parents. I felt more like I was a stranger watching and listening as his life unfolded before me like a brother, not as a father. He told me about this woman who fancied his face and had a habit of touching. They touched each other a lot of times and then she went away. She was crying when she left and when she came back, there was a baby in her arms. She was crying. She left without the baby. She was crying.

That baby that was left was I. That baby who became a boy heard his stories about the glowing forms that would suddenly appear in front of him from time to time. Those glowing forms talk to each other. But the boy that was I could not see or hear them. The whole time, I only heard the man talking to them, who would be forced by his parents to take drugs so he will not see and hear those glowing forms. The boy that was I could not understand why Mama and Papa would not want him to talk to the glowing light. The boy that was I could not understand why he would be angry at the glowing light sometimes and smoke a series of cigarettes that Mama and Papa would not want him to do. The boy that was I could not understand why he would growl at Mama and Papa about things in the past and things in the future over and over again like a rotating carousel. The boy that was I would see the twitching of his lips and the tremors of his legs that were like secrets he wanted to keep but could not; and a pleading that his mother wants to answer but could not do anything about.

One day he said, "I want to break out of my body and let the glow of light in me be free." I didn't understand what he meant by it. Maybe he meant to say that we all have a glow in us, just like the glow of light that would appear to him and talk to him. Maybe by breaking his body he will be able to set his glowing light free and join the other glowing forms. The boy that was I kept on thinking how he would do that. I found no answer. I found no answer because he left. The man that was my father, one day left. He left the two people we call papa and mama. He left the boy that was I.

I said I was 13 years old. He was 36 and unmarried. I was his son. He came back. But he didn't come back for me. He came back for comfort. He came back for mama to cry for him. He came back for papa to accept him. I was there just to watch. I was there to see him say his goodbyes five times a day and listen to all what he has kept in his mind that he was saying goodbye to. It was a noisy and never ending rotating carousel of goodbyes. Those glowing forms that he alone could see, seemed like, they were the ones riding on the horses of the carousel; sometimes giggling, sometimes silent, sometimes in anguish, sometimes in fear, a lot of times in regret and sometimes just watching. Maybe they have seen me watching too. But I could not see them. He alone could see them. He alone could hear them.

I remember how Papa tried to explain my father's malady when I was a boy. He said, "There is this water in his brain that is making him see those glowing light. You know this water seems like a mirror where you can see yourself. This water is in different places in his head at different times that is why he thinks that what he sees is not himself but other forms; like a glow that can talk the way he does and would talk about the past again and again. But what he does not realize is that, it is himself that he talks to. It is himself at different times in his past." I listened intently and then after some thought I asked, "Don't I have that water in my brain?" Papa kept silent. He did not want to say a myth. It was Mama who decided to say the myth. She said, "You see, if you catch a cold and you swallow the phlegm; that will be the water. So be careful." After that conversation, I wanted to have a cold so I could swallow the phlegm and then maybe I could see what my father could see.

I was 13 years old. He was 36 and unmarried. I was his son. He left and came back but he stayed only for a while. He was sent to an institution and there for 15 years he stayed. I was relieved that he was sent away. I didn't like the way he made mama cry and the way he argued with papa almost everyday. I didn't like it that I know I was his son, but it didn't feel like it. I forgot about him and enjoyed high school. I forgot about him and enjoyed taking my science degree in the university that opened a lot of doors for me. He was not in my mind when I got my degree from that university. He was never in my mind when I did my post-graduate studies in medicine. But he came to mind when I remembered the thing about saying goodbye five times a day. I remembered because the cloud over my head made me remember.

Mama and Papa were happy about me doing all my studies. They didn't know that I too, became so sad just like my father that I had to say my goodbyes five times a day. I didn't want them to know. Having my father was enough experience for them. So, I decided to say my goodbyes five times a day somewhere else very far away from them. 

Here in this park, where it doesn't rain, the sun is always smiling and when it decides to rest for the day, it simply gradually bows down and dims out. Here, very far away from my Papa and Mama, I am happy. I am happy not because I don't like to be with them but because the eternal sun drives away the sadness. The night times are too short and bearable. It does not rain here. I am glad it doesn't rain here. I am very far away from where I was born where rain soaks my fears and make it germinate. Here in this land that once was a dessert there is no cold rain that clouds my mind.  Here, I am happy being alone. Here I can say my goodbyes five times a day freely.

But today, the reason I am sitting on this bench in this park is because I got the news that he died. He who I have forgotten. He who taught me to say goodbye five times a day. He who made me believe that when a moment walks out, it is gone forever. He died. He finally managed to break his body and set his glow free. I'll say my goodbye; my fourth goodbye of the day. Probably my last one. I have to say goodbye to saying goodbye.

THE END