A few years ago, at a Las Vegas convention for magicians, Penn Jillette, of the act Penn and Teller, was introduced to a soft-spoken young man named Apollo Robbins, who has a reputation as a pickpocket of almost supernatural ability. Jillette, who ranks pickpockets, he says, "a few notches below hypnotists on the show-biz totem pole," was holding court at a table of colleagues, and he asked Robbins for a demonstration, ready to be unimpressed. Robbins demurred, claiming that he felt uncomfortable working in front of other magicians. He pointed out that, since Jillette was wearing only shorts and a sports shirt, he wouldn't have much to work with.
"Come on," Jillette said. "Steal something from me."
Again, Robbins begged off, but he offered to do a trick instead. He instructed Jillette to place a ring that he was wearing on a piece of paper and trace its outline with a pen. By now, a small crowd had gathered. Jillette removed his ring, put it down on the paper, unclipped a pen from his shirt, and leaned forward, preparing to draw. After a moment, he froze and looked up. His face was pale.
"Fuck. You," he said, and slumped into a chair.
Robbins held up a thin, cylindrical object: the cartridge from Jillette's pen.
(adam green, "a pickpocket's tale," new yorker 01.07.13)
i returned to a vintage place down on lafayette yesterday afternoon to reacquaint myself with a regally evil black coat i discovered there a week ago. "you're back for the dolce," they noted. i guess i'd gone on at length about how it made me want to lurk in alleys and pick pockets.
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