In the park, I was sitting one bench down from an old man reading a neatly folded newspaper. A wooden cane, fashioned from a hardwood branch, sanded and lacquered, leaned against his knee. The man had the air of having done this exact thing every morning for decades. He didn’t look up as people passed. He just read his paper and, occasionally, rested his free palm on the head of the cane and gently rocked it.
Then a long-haired kid came pounding by in old running sneakers and baggy jeans and snatched the cane away—just blew past like a gust and seized the cane with the greatest refinement and delicacy, and without the slightest adjustment to his stride. It took the old man a second or two to notice. A little flutter at the corner of his paper, and the cane was gone.
A couple of burly guys saw it happen and took off after the kid. I asked the old man if he was all right, but I didn’t really care. I was jealous. Of the kid, I mean. I wanted the cane. I wanted to be able to steal a thing with such grace, to be young and an asshole again.