Tinman thought all meals were important, so he wasn’t sure if breakfast ranked any higher than the others. But it certainly was his favorite. He felt it was essential to get the metabolism working as soon as possible, and he had a fixed menu that rarely varied.
Of course, before anything went down the gullet, he spent at least forty-five minutes getting his brain in sync with his body. This process involved a strict exercise regimen, including yoga poses, Tai Chi moves (to align the yin and yang forces—right on!), and a host of more ordinary exercises such as sit-ups and jumping jacks.
When he was a pool hustler, the exercises helped him get centered so his shooting would be fluid and free from mental or physical constraints. When his career died, and he took up heisting with his brother, Peach, he found the daily practice helped to brace himself for the risky business of burglary.
They had recently run into a slow spell, so today, he was joining his adopted uncles, Bones and Catfish, as they plied their trade as pickpockets. The two old guys usually worked as a pair, with Bones being the cannon, the one who lifted the wallets. But when they heard about his and Peach’s trouble, they offered to bring them on board as part of their whiz mob.
Tinman was unhappy about it, as he didn’t care much for the whiz. But money was short, and he and Peach were considered bang-up stalls, or assistants, in the pickpocket game. As young boys, they learned under Bones’ tutelage, and old skills die hard. For today’s mob, Tinman would function as the stick man and backstop. His duties required him to stick the mark in a particular frame so the cannon could get an advantageous slant to fork the leather (pick the wallet). Depending on the situation, he might also be required to work the hump. Often, stalls work with their backs to a mark, never touching them but subtly invading their personal space to maneuver them into a usable frame for the cannon.
Tinman was adept at all the moves needed to help the touch go down and was privately glad he was not functioning as the duke man, whose job was to take the handoff of the poke from the cannon and depart from the scene immediately. That would be Peach’s job for the day since he was quicker on his feet.
Still, as he went through his exercises, clad only in his boxers, he had to work hard to overcome his grumpiness for having been force to rise earlier than usual—pre-noon. Catfish, functioning as the steer, had decided the day’s work would take place at a music festival over at Bartley Ranch. The events started early, and Bones, the de facto leader of the mob, was a stickler for showing up on time so that a proper analysis of the crush, or crowd, could be realized before actually going on the whiz.
Despite the early start, Tinman would not be hurried. He was a man of firm principles and processes, and to be at his best, he needed to stick to his schedule.
After wrapping up his jumping jacks, he walked to the kitchen area of his studio apartment and began to prepare his breakfast by heating 1-3/4 cups of water to a boil. Meanwhile, he chose a ripe banana and cut off a third. Sitting this chunk aside, he tossed the rest into his blender. Next went aloe vera juice, followed by half as much apple juice, and a splash of cranberry juice. He was very picky about his cranberry juice. Having discovered that most brands on the market contained a miniscule amount of cranberry, with the rest being filler juices, he only bought jars from Trader Joe’s, consisting of 100% cranberry puree. He couldn’t afford anything else at that store, but he always sprang for the juice.
He opened his freezer and pulled out a Ziploc filled with blackberries. Whenever a store ran a special on expensive fruits, he would stockpile and freeze them for breakfast. In this case, he had bought ten packages of blackberries at .98 cents a pop. He pulled out one berry and tossed it in the blender. On the door of the freezer, he had several bags of raw cranberries, all lined up. He called it his Cranberry Row, in quippy tribute to his favorite author, John Steinbeck. Every Thanksgiving, he snapped up a dozen bags of cranberries and froze them for the year—using one bag a month. He pulled out six berries from this month’s allotment and tossed them into the blender along with two ice cubes.
Lastly, he pulled a quart tub of plain yogurt from the fridge and plopped a healthy dollop into the blender. He turned it on low, and the concoction slowly ground up, becoming the morning’s elixir.
The water was boiling, so he tossed in a third cup of five-grain cereal, which he bought in bulk at his favorite store, WinCo. He never bought any boxed cereal, recognizing it as perhaps the biggest scam in a grocery store—since much of what one is paying for is the box. With the five-grain cereal, he had the whole process down to a science. By turning the heat to medium-low, he could partake of his three-minute shower and get dressed, and by the time he was through, the cereal would be ready. He switched off the blender and headed for the bathroom.
Eight minutes later, he reappeared, now dressed like an upstanding citizen in khaki pants and a button-up dress shirt. It was imperative to dress well while on the whiz. People subconsciously expect pickpockets and thieves to dress like lowlifes and do not suspect someone who dresses like themselves.
He walked to the stove, and the hot cereal was perfect, with most of the water absorbed into the grains. He ladled the mix into a bowl. Next, he sliced the third of a banana on top. He retrieved a large, ripe strawberry from a package in the fridge and sliced that up as well. They were currently in season and super cheap. He added a single blackberry in the center for presentation purposes.
Finally, he drizzled molasses over everything and finished off the masterpiece with several artistically placed dabs of yogurt.
With juice and bowl in hand, he settled into his easy chair and prepared for the ritual of eating. During which, even if people were present, no talking or interaction of any kind was allowed. It was a sacred moment between a man, his food, and a crossword.
This was his special time. And he enjoyed lingering over it, savoring the moment of providing sustenance to the body, bringing life-sustaining energy, and awakening the soul to a new day.
Twenty minutes later, he arose and crossed to the sink, washed his dishes, and turned to the room.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
Bones, half-dozing and perched on the single bed alongside Catfish and Peach, opened his eyes and said, “You have a hole in your boxers.”
“Where?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Catfish piped in. “You know, you remind me of one of my wives.”
“She looked like me in my boxers?”
“Sorta. But what I meant is the world could be coming to an end, and she’d be damn sure her makeup was perfect. You know, to look good for the metropolis.”
“Apocalypse,” corrected Tinman, the gang’s wordsmith.
“That too,” agreed Catfish.
Peach said, “Your breakfast sure looked yummy.”
“It was. Did you all eat before you got here?”
The three guys nodded, all of them lying. Bones and Catfish had only had coffee, and Peach had scarfed down some nastiness from a fast food joint, which doesn’t count.
“Good,” said Tinman. “Let’s do this.”
With a jaunty step and ready to take on the day, he strutted out the front door with the others plodding after.
