By P.K. Silverson
© Copyright 2008
By The Author
All Rights Reserved
There once was a rogue thief who was very good at his trade.
His nimble fingers made him particularly suited for picking a well-lined pocket, and he did so with great skill whenever the opportunity presented itself. Because he had a sharp eye, he was also adept at recognizing a favorable moment for what it was.
Trust me on this, for I know what I’m talking about.
Because the rogue thief had a taste for the high life, it took ever more purses to provide enough money to satisfy his appetite. So the rogue thief took himself to a city in the sunshine by the sea. There he made his living ever so successfully.
As time went by and the thief’s luck held, he came to view his occupation as a sport and an entertainment as well as the source of considerable income. He liked to make the acquaintance of his chosen victims while liberating their wallets. He regarded this as a great challenge.
One fine day, he found himself face to face with a gentleman whose hip pocket he intended to explore. It wasn’t the need for money which drew the thief to this man, for he had already taken a pair of fat prizes that very morning. In fact, because the day had started out bright and clear, with salt air from the beach washing over the city’s streets in waves of balmy breezes, honest citizens were lulled into a complacency which made the thief’s job all the easier.
What attracted the thief’s attention was the way this man simply stood on the corner of the street in the mid-day sun. Dressed in the most stylish of tailored attire, he remained fixed to his spot, gazing all the while through empty eyes at the rich blue sky.
“Easy pickings,” thought the thief as he approached the man. He regarded his intended victim for a brief moment before initiating contact, then found himself shaking with surprise. He recognized the man’s sad face.
Trust me on this, for I know what I’m talking about.
“Pardon me,” the thief quickly regained his senses. This was an unexpected challenge, and possibly the source for his greatest professional triumph ever. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
It seemed to take extraordinary effort for the man to focus his attention on the person who stood before him. “I don’t think so,” he said finally in a voice choked and shaking.
“No?” the thief pressed on boldly, “I’m sure I recognize your face from somewhere.”
“That’s quite possible,” the man answered in a still, quiet manner. “I’m quite well known to many. You could possibly even say I’m famous.”
“Say, that’s right,” the thief assumed the role of a bright citizen. “I love the things you do.”
“That’s very kind of you to say,” the man smiled a sad, sweet smile. “Although I might disappoint by telling you that I won’t be doing much of anything anymore.”
“No?” the thief was intrigued. “And why not, pray tell?”
“That’s a long story,” the man’s shoulder’s sagged visibly, “and not a very happy one either.”
“I’ve got plenty of time,” the thief said, which was perfectly true, for his hours were all his own. “You’ve sparked my curiosity. Please, won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
The man’s eyes swung around to meet the thief’s directly. They were red and swollen, as if every tear in his body had run through them all at once. Not a shred of hope could be seen in them, not even at the prospect of telling his tale.
“All right,” the man said quietly, and he began:
“I was a minstrel in the town where I lived. I grew up in a simple but comfortable cottage in a little house down a well-worn lane off the main street that ran through town. Ever since I was a child, it seemed, I had a gift for story-telling and song. My father gave me a mandolin for my tenth birthday. I was just about the happiest boy on the face of the earth.
“‘Study your instrument well, son,’ my father told me. And I did. It became the center of my world and the source of my joy. As I grew, I began to range far and wide, singing my songs and playing my mandolin. I traveled the world at my own pace, never wanting for money or shoes or food or shelter.
“One day, not long ago as days are counted on the calendar, a man came over to me as I played by the roadside. I remember the scent of the warm spring air and the soft carpet of grass under my bare feet as I stood there. A sea of smiling faces surrounded me and sparkling coins filled my cap as it lay beside me on the ground. But this man did not smile the way the others smiled. He had the look of the wolf about him, which I expect, is the look of the city, because everyone here seems to have it.”
“Even me?” the thief asked, startled.
“Yes,” the minstrel nodded slowly, “I see it in you, too. It distresses me to say so, because you have been so kind. But I cannot lie to you about this. I apologize. I mean no disrespect.”
“None taken,” the thief answered, stroking the whiskers on his chin as he made a mental note to cultivate a more humble appearance just as soon as he got home.
Trust me on this point. I know what I’m talking about.
“Tell me more about the man,” the thief urged the minstrel to go on. “He seems to be quite important to you.”
“You have a gift for understatement, gentle sir,” the minstrel observed. “The man was important, indeed. As soon as I finished my singing and the crowd broke up to go on about their various ways, this man came over to me, much as you have, and introduced himself by telling me I had a wonderful voice and a way with a song.
“I thanked him for his kindness as I packed my mandolin into its case. But he neither put any money into my hand nor did he go away.
“Instead, he asked me if I’d ever thought of turning professional. He offered his opinion that I could become quite wealthy at it if I had the right management.
“I must admit his words intrigued me. So, as I pulled on my boots and prepared to go my way, I asked him what he meant. He told me he was an agent in a large organization dedicated to developing performing talent, and if I chose to accompany him and give him my trust, he could turn me into a star.
“You can well imagine the thoughts going ’round in my head as he presented tempting images of fine clothes, luxurious dwellings, ample food and the opportunity to perform before large and eager audiences. Before I’d thought too long or hard about it, I found myself shaking hands with the agent, and we came to this city together.
“Oh, it was fine fun at first. I was housed in a wonderful suite of rooms overlooking the western ocean’s blue expanse. I was escorted to the finest parties and I dined in the best inns in the land. I was given elegant costumes and back-up musicians.
“More quickly than I could have imagined, I grew quite accustomed to my new lot in life. When I asked my agent about the cost of the splendor around me, he told me not to worry and assured me everything was as it should be. When I pressed him for further details, he’d simply smile and wink and say, ‘Trust me. You take care of your job, and you’ll be well taken care of.’
“So I did my job to the best of my abilities, performing on demand. I appeared on grand stages in front of large, appreciative crowds. I heard applause at the end of each song like I’d never heard before.
“It felt like I was living in the middle of a dream,” the minstrel said, shaking his head and running his finger along the curve of his cheek to clear a fresh tear before it could fall.
“As it turns out, I was.”
By now, the thief was thoroughly captivated by the minstrel’s story, and had all but forgotten about trying to rob him. “What happened?” he wanted to know. The genuine depth of his curiosity surprised him even more than recognizing the minstrel on the street, which was, to say, quite a great deal indeed.
Trust me on this, for I know what I’m talking about.
“What happened?” sniffed the minstrel, looking as though his heart would surely burst, “I’ll tell you what happened. Just a fortnight ago, I rang for the servant who worked in the suite of rooms overlooking the ocean. He came, but reluctantly. When I inquired as to why, he informed me he had not been paid in weeks, and he had considered looking elsewhere for more gainful employment. I calmed him by telling him that, although I did not handle the financial arrangements of his service, I would look into the matter and make sure his salary was taken care of.
“The next day, I went to see my agent. I was put off by his secretary, who scheduled me for an appointment at a later date; in other words, today. I was assured, however, everything was being taken care of. Everything was under control and I had absolutely nothing to worry about.
“Trusting in this, I left, resolved to return this very day. In the meantime, I found myself locked out of restaurants, exempted from picking out new clothing, and literally having to fend for myself in this great city.”
“That’s terrible,” the thief was sympathetic to the minstrel’s plight, because he’d experienced his own difficulties getting oriented to living in the city of sunshine by the sea, even though he’d done quite well for himself after all.
“That’s not the end of it,” the distressed minstrel was crying now, and not just a little. “I met with my agent this morning. I asked him about the wealth and plenty he’d promised when he brought me to this city. I asked him about the admissions paid by all the great audiences I’d performed for. He regarded me briefly with his beady little eyes and told me all the money I’d earned by performing had been used to pay for my wonderful suite of rooms and my transportation and my meals and my clothing and my costumes and my musicians. And all the other money that hadn’t been used up for those reasons had taken care of other expenses I wasn’t even aware of, like management fees and legal fees and distribution and publicity and words I’d never even heard before.
“My agent also told me that demand for tickets to my performances had been falling off lately, and I was no longer the hot commodity he’d expected me to become. He said if I was patient, he might be able to engage me as a lounge singer somewhere, but it would take some time, because his efforts had gone into promoting me as a headline performer.
“I asked him to explain what he meant in everyday, common language. He obliged by telling me nobody wanted to see me anymore, and I was out of money.
“I was humiliated, standing there with nothing to my name but my mandolin. When I told him I’d trusted him, he just shrugged and said, ‘That’s show business, kid.’
“So I left his office and found a man who bought my mandolin for a fair price. It was just enough for fare back to the village where I was born. I’ve been standing here, wondering what I’m to do with myself when I get there, for I don’t even have the instrument my father gave to me when I was a lad of ten.”
“That’s just about the saddest story I’ve ever heard,” the thief admitted, brushing a tear from his own eye. “Do you mean to tell me that you are absolutely penniless?”
“Almost,” the minstrel answered in a choked, small voice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paltry few bills and coins. “As I’ve already told you, I have just enough to pay my way home.”
“This is your lucky day. I think I have the answer to end all of your misery,” the thief told the minstrel with a pleasant smile, “if you would but trust me.”
“I’d be willing to do just about anything at this point,” the minstrel’s eyes lit with a faint fire of hope.
“Then hand me your money and be done with your cares,” the thief told him. “I’ll do the rest.”
“Why not?” shrugged the minstrel. “I have nothing left to lose.”
“I quite agree,” the thief said as he quickly pocketed the small sum. With that, he turned both palms up toward the minstrel and pushed against the hapless former celebrity with all his might.
Startled, the minstrel stumbled headlong off the safety of the sidewalk right into the middle of the busy city street. Without realizing it, he blundered into the path of the on-rushing Wilshire Corridor limited express bus.
The last words the minstrel took with him from this earth were those of the thief, who beat a hasty retreat from the scene to avoid the legal entanglements which inevitably would result from the unfortunate impact.
They were words the minstrel had heard repeated many times in the realm of the city of sunshine by the western sea, and those words were these:
“Have an nice day.”
Moral: Never bend over in Southern California while your pants are undone.
