LESSONS IN SURVIVAL

　Thursday, June 7, 1973 (Henry is 27, and 9)

　

HENRY: I am standing across the street from the Art Institute of Chicago on a sunny June day in 1973 in the company of my nine-year-old self. He is traveling from next Wednesday; I have come from 1990. We have a long afternoon and evening to frivol as we will, and so we have come to one of the great art museums of the world for a little lesson in pick-pocketing.

　“Can’t we just look at the art?” pleads Henry. He’s nervous. He’s never done this before.

　“Nope. You need to know this. How are you going to survive if you can’t steal anything?”

　“Begging.”

　“Begging is a drag, and you keep getting carted off by the police. Now, listen: when we get in there, I want you to stay away from me and pretend we don’t know each other. But be close enough to watch what I’m doing. If I hand you anything, don’t drop it, and put it in your pocket as fast as you can. Okay?”

　“I guess. Can we go see St. George?”

　“Sure.” We cross Michigan Avenue and walk between students and housewives sunning themselves on the museum steps. Henry pats one of the bronze lions as we go by.

　I feel moderately bad about this whole thing. On the one hand, I am providing myself with urgently required survival skills. Other lessons in this series include Shoplifting, Beating People Up, Picking Locks, Climbing Trees, Driving, Housebreaking, Dumpster Diving, and How to Use Oddball Things like Venetian Blinds and Garbage Can Lids as Weapons. On the other hand, I’m corrupting my poor innocent little self. I sigh. Somebody’s got to do it.

　It’s Free Day, so the place is swarming with people. We stand in line, move through the entry, and slowly climb the grandiose central staircase.