playing the part

at the mall, before the con

My car slides into the ballet of vehicles, all obediently drawn toward the magnetic building ahead. The mall sprawls before us in all its glassy glory, rising against the sky with a vastness that feels gravitational.

The world moves, and I wanted to look like I was moving, too. I had nowhere to be, so I came here. I pretended to be productive. The mall pretended it had purpose for me. Maybe I’d find something in the clutter of the stores, the sharp sales pitches, the people pressing against each other. Even if just air-conditioning. It was that or another day of watching my ceiling slowly peel.

The parking lot is crawling with cars. I slow down to let a family cross. The kid is dragging something—half blanket, half stuffed animal. It flops with every step like it’s had a long week. The dad juggles a bright shopping bag and a phone, nudging the kid forward with his leg. As they pass, I catch the father’s voice: “And then the monster disappeared.” The kid lights up. For a second, I want to know what happened to the monster. I used to think families like that looked fake. Now I just think they’re lucky.

I pull into a spot, turn off the engine. I exhale, only now realizing I’ve been holding my breath. I stay in the car for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the surrounding sounds. A shopping cart rattles somewhere nearby. A child’s laughter drifts faintly across the lot. Above it all, the low drone of a passing plane.

My father didn’t read me bedtime stories. He showed me movies. Heists, cons, tricksters, elegant frauds. ‘These are the smart ones,’ he’d say. ‘The ones who know how to play the world.’ He’d point at the screen like it was a documentary. While other kids listened to stories of wolves and witches, I admired men who vanished behind masks and women who smiled while lifting wallets.

My father told me the world isn't for people like us unless we trick our way into it. He slipped candy bars into my jacket pocket, nudged me into theaters through side exits. “Don’t worry,” he’d say. “They’ve got insurance.” He moved like the people in those movies — calm, clever, untouchable. He walked with purpose and lied like it was a second language. I thought I could be one of them. But when it was my turn, I stuttered.

Con men enter rooms like they own them. I enter apologetically. I hesitate. I overthink. I stammer through small talk and brace for alarms at store exits like I’m smuggling plutonium. Turns out, good tricksters aren’t riddled with social anxiety.