Thinking Out Loud

By Gerard Meister

Not too long ago the American criminal was the envy of the world. Dillinger, Bonny and Clyde, Al Capone, Ponzi (the Patron Saint of Enron) and Willie Sutton were all ours. Now what do we have?

Not much when you consider the likes of Thomas Ray Mitchell who was convicted of shooting his girl friend Barbara Jenkins (she survived) a couple of years ago. Mitchell testified that he shot her because he thought she was about to say, "New Jersey."

At the trial, which took place in Houston, Texas, the defense did not claim insanity as a defense. Seems that Mr. Mitchell also flies off the handle when he hears, "Snickers," "Mars" and "Wisconsin." On the first day of the trail Mr. Mitchell did not react when New Jersey was uttered within his earshot. But the next day he did stuff his fingers in his ears during parts of the testimony.

Mitchell was found guilty and faces up to 20 years in prison. With time off for good behavior he could be out in five or six years. As a native NewYorker, I've spent more time than that stuck in the never-ending, horrendous traffic on the Jersey Turnpike. I know they say Justice is blind, but deaf too.

In the last few years, my wife and I vacationed in France a couple of times. We went on the Meister Plan, which is a lot like the Marshall Plan of (post) World War II, but with one essential difference. Under the Marshall plan we gave to France (and to the rest of Europe, too) all the things they would need to put their country back together again. Under the Meister Plan, we don't send anything, the French just take it. Here is how it works:

Once I make airline and hotel reservations, the French underworld hacks into whatever computer program has my itinerary. It then becomes a simple matter to alert all the pickpockets in the areas I'll be known to travel. Last year I was in Cannes not twenty minutes when I spotted a McDonald's. Hungry for a taste of America I nipped into the establishment where a kindly Frenchwoman leaned over me, making sure to press her ample bosom against my back, and helped me figure out the change the cashier had dropped on my tray.

I gave the thoughtful lady my best merci and with little room between her breasts and the next person in line, managed to turn and squeeze by her. This entire incident didn't take 30 seconds. When I got to my table the coffee was still too hot to drink, but my wallet was gone.

This past April we decide it would be Paris. Again it was the first day, but the pickpockets already alerted to our location, had stationed themselves at the nearest Metro to our hotel. This time it was a kindly gentleman who assisted my wife and me push through the turnstile. When I turned to give him my heartfelt merci, he was already gone. So was my money.

But my last day in Paris I got even with the creeps. My wife and I had lunched in the Jewish quarter. (Great chicken soup.) On the way home we decide to use the Metro again. This time I was way ahead of them. I had stashed all my money and credit cards in my high socks (I was wearing sneakers) and sashayed into the Metro with an empty wallet. I was smiling like a Cheshire cat waiting for someone to make a move, but no one came near me except for the guy who stumbled slightly getting out. It wasn't much of a pratfall, just enough to filch my wallet.

"Boy, did I ever put one over on him," I chortled to my wife. "Not a penny in the wallet - ha, ha. I bet it'll be a while before that S.O.B. takes on another American tourist." But when we got back to the hotel, I discovered that I had inadvertently left one of my credit cards in the wallet. Although the card was expiring in a couple of weeks, I stopped it anyway. You can't be too careful nowadays.