Untitled Literary Fiction

A story in the Sunday edition of The Bulletin – dated for the third of September, 1958 – detailed the recent acquisition of a small, valuable art collection by one Arthur P. Shuffe, local business leader and prominent city official, widower and – apparently – connoisseur of erotic art. The story, while far from exhaustive in its description of said art collection – no doubt an attempt to remain wholesome and prevent tarnishing the newspaper's pristine image – described the artwork as pornographic and disturbing, while avoiding the details. The diligent reader, however, would no doubt draw unsavory conclusions from the story's suggestive text. Certainly it alluded to women and men in various states of undress, exposed pubic regions, bare breasts, and exquisitely rendered cocks in acrylic and oil.

This issue of The Bulletin would prove fateful for Stanley Peak who purchased his copy early that Sunday morning from a newsstand, but only after standing in the middle of the sidewalk stall for several minutes. Several minutes spent sniffling in the cold, rubbing bleary eyes, and attempting to blink away his hangover and a headache with a pulse, each throbbing wave deeper than the last as they moved radially from the depths of his cranium to the outer circumference of his skull. So absorbed was he with his crusty eyes and exploding head that he paid no mind to those milling around, impatiently reaching around him for their morning papers, brushing him aside with growing impatience to purchase their days cigarettes. It wasn't until the vendor cleared his throat – as Stanley made to rub his left eye once again – that Stanley realized he was in the very middle of the vendor's stall, in the way of other patrons, was being a rude pain in the ass, and probably looked like some sort of stewbum. In a sudden hurry to be nowhere but anywhere else, Stanley purchased his paper and cigarettes, sneezing on the vendor as he handed over his change. This was followed by an uncomfortable silence between the two men, the vendor's paunchy face reddening, Stanley realizing more than ever that his welcome had run out. This silence was punctuated – to Stanley's great relief – by the tolling of bells.

– Time for church, he said, grinning and tipping his hat to the vendor before making a hasty retreat.

In truth, he was headed for The Bitter End via Riverside and Royal, not a direct route to his favorite establishment, but Sunday morning on Royal meant heavy foot traffic and heavy foot traffic meant easy pickings for Stanley's nimble fingers, a real 'three wallet morning' as he and his brother Charles called them. Normally, they worked as pair as they'd been taught, but Stanley had become quite the fingersmith and often had great success on his own. Presently, he stands at the corner of the two streets, finishing the day's first nauseating cigarette, the smoke choking him this morning and encouraging his headache. He stubs the butt out on the brick facade next to him, absent-mindedly grinding the charred butt into the craggy surface, coloring an ashen line into the ridges and caverns of the brick while sizing up the crowd moving along Royal.

He knows it would be best to simply head to the pub and get a pint for his head, but the temptation to lift a few wallets – and the worry that he'll miss a potentially lucrative morning – overpowers his discomfort. He is also aware that he has precisely enough money on him for just a single pint and really he will need two if he wants to feel right as rain and more sober than sober and all that. Stanley flicks the mangled wreck of his cigarette into the street and joins the bustle, moving north toward his destination: The Bitter End. And his stool. And an ice cold pint.

He needs to move quickly, he only has three blocks to work. Picking pockets on Sunday mornings along Royal has turned into a sort of game between him and his brother, transforming a fairly routine activity into a challenge and something of a thrill as the need to work quickly before reaching The End raised the likelihood of mistakes which, in turn, increased the odds of being discovered.