The Code of Common Thieves

Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



You'd never suspect me. I spend so much time directing the spotlight elsewhere. And I'm nice. I seem nice.

When I first become frustrated with a job - and I've become frustrated with every job I've ever had - I start to steal things. Small things. Things difficult to prove stolen. A stapler's a good example; a pack of Post-It notes, etc. My favorite first thing to steal is your coffee. Your head's turned and I pass your desk and swipe your mug and dump it in a trash can. I never see your reaction, because remaining too close to a crime scene's a mistake. I've learned to prefer the enjoyment of imagining your reaction. I've no choice. I imagine your confusion. I enjoy thinking that maybe you're doubting yourself. You're not sure if you got the coffee or not. I like that best.

There's a code that thieves live by, or should live by, and I've written it, and I've revised it so often that it's down to essentially one thought, one rule. The code started as a Ten Commandments kind of thing, mainly because lists of ten seem legitimate. But much of my original work seemed like filler. Like I was fleshing out the list simply to have a list. So I trimmed the fat and shrunk it to a single credo: Steal from others what they don't need.

In simplifying the code, I originally had it down to two thoughts: Steal from others what they don't need and what they won't miss. The "won't miss" part was carry-over from an earlier version that emphasized "getting away with it" at all costs. The logic being, as a thief, to steal what won't be missed is tantamount to not stealing at all. But this is to deny being a thief. A thief is a thief and needs - as everyone needs - a certain amount of self-respect. And I'm not referencing Robin Hood. Hood was a punk and a coward. A hubris-stained clown. I say stealers keepers losers weepers. To rob from the rich to give to the poor is to seek the limelight. There's a hidden agenda there. Think about it.

So after I steal your coffee I steal your affection. I listen to your problems and become your friend and make you trust me. And then when your head's turned, I swipe your affection and dump it in a trash can. I do it for no other reason than enjoyment. If you insist there's something noble in me, see it this way: I'm doing you a favor. You don't need affection. It was stolen from me years ago and I'll be perfectly honest - I don't miss it. Affection gave me nothing. What has it given you?

Don't answer. I'm not interested.