Another Damn Chase Scene

Conditions: Must contain old people, penny loafers, parcour.

It wasn't so much that I minded. I mean, even as petty thefts go, this one was small potatoes. Two pennies, that was all: one from each loafer. Granted, it was the third time in as many weeks, but that's still only six pence.

It wasn't as though there were some larger principle at stake, either. Up till last month, I didn't know I was meant to put pennies in my shoes. I thought "penny loafer" was a reference to the price of shoes in the fifteenth century, or some such. If I'd noticed the penny-sized slots at all (which I'm not sure I had), I'd taken them for ventilation. You get sneakers with pinholes in the sides--why not loafers with air shafts on top?

At any rate, I found out about the pennies on the first of the month. I know it was the first, 'cos it was my landlord told me. He was here picking up the rent, and he said to me, "What's the matter, Jack--somebody pinch your pennies?" I stared at him, all perplexed, like.

"Eh? I counted twice, but...."

He looked puzzled for a sec, and then he started to laugh. "The pennies from your shoes, silly." He pointed. "You're missing your pennies."

I'll spare you the series of "wots" and "sillies" that followed. Suffice it to say, I got it through my skull in the end. Penny loafers, popular in the eighties, but not so much now (which, if anyone asks, is my excuse for not knowing)--penny loafers: ratty brown shoes, named for the pennies you stick under the tongues. Sounds a bit naff, if you ask me, but non-penny loafers have to be double-naff. I mean, that looks like you can't even spare tuppence in the name of fashion. So I stuck in the pennies, and a week later, they were nicked. I went to the baths with them in, and after my swim, they were gone. Same thing happened the following week, and again, today.

First two times, I didn't see the bastard. This time, I got it in my head to finish up a little early--not with the express intention of catching the thief, you understand--but if I did catch him, I wouldn't complain. Well, cut a long story short, my plan paid off. I came round the side of the lockers, and there he was. He had my loafer in one hand, and a nice shiny penny in the other. Cheeky git had to've been all through my bag. I'd put the loafers right at the bottom--a precautionary measure, sort of thing.

It wasn't some kid, either, some schoolboy on a lark. It was this crinkly old geezer, a real schoolmaster type. He had puffy white hair à la Einstein, and horrible Elton John specs. Threads-wise, he had him a weskit and breeks, and a jacket with tails over that. His shirt was the kind with cufflinks instead of buttons, and there was a watch-chain hung across his chest. I checked his feet for penny loafers--I thought maybe he'd been losing his own pennies, and helping himself to mine--but he had ordinary Italian leathers. (Well, ordinary if you're rich. Not so ordinary for me.)

"What are you doing?" I went. I wasn't so much angry as incredulous. But this geezer, he wasn't sticking around for explanations. He lobbed the loafer right at me, and shot off like Superman. Leaping tall benches in single bounds, he was. He wasn't tall, but he did have long legs. John Cleese long, even.

Well, I just stood there a second, face all phuuuu-huuuuh?--and then I was away. I chased him out of the lockers, down the hall, and straight through the fire door. When he went under the security mirror (one of those bubble-shaped ones), I'd have sworn I saw a distorted grin on his face. Prat was enjoying himself.

'Course, that wasn't how everyone else saw it. I mean, here's this weedy wee sod, eighty years old if he's a day, running like all the hounds of hell are on his tail, and here's me: Mr. H. Hound, pleased to meet you, six-foot-four and built like a brick wall. Oh, and I'm still in my Speedo, to boot. There was a lot of tutting and "Young man!"-ing going on.

I thought I had him in the parking lot. It was a busy day: cars everywhere, not to mention trolleys from the greengrocer's, and assorted old biddies with their shopping. His old legs wouldn't handle the swerving. He'd have to slow down, and I'd get round for the intercept. I could see it in my head already. It was practically a done deal--except, then he went over the cars. I'd just banked right, anticipating his most likely course, when he threw up both arms and launched himself into the air. He came down on the hood of a Volvo. Next thing I knew, he was up the windshield, over the sunroof, and down the other side. He didn't even pause.

"You old cunt!" I gasped, but in an admiring way. Well, a disbelieving way, anyhow. I guarantee you, you never saw anything like it. He ran across that Volvo like it wasn't even there, then repeated the performance on two Citroëns parked nose-to-nose. And then--and I photo'd it on my camera, so you'd know it was true--and then, see? See here? That's the guy. It's exactly what it looks like. Matrix-style, eh? Straight up an eight-foot wall! And the next thing you know, I saw him through the gate, on his way up yon flats, balcony to balcony like a monkey.

By this time, I had to admit it was over. There's no way I was going over the wall, and the gate's always locked on a Saturday. By the time I went round, the geezer'd be long gone. He was already on the third floor. I thought he was going to break in--maybe steal a few more pennies, or a TV set--but he just kept on climbing. Last I saw, he was sailing off over the rooftops, house to house, all the way down the row. It was like Mary Poppins without the umbrella, or Spiderman without the webs. Something, anyway.

I reckon he did it on purpose, the trick with the loafers. It must be how he gets his jollies: he provokes some poor berk into chasing him, and then, whoosh, there he goes. Bloody show-off. These wrinklies, nowadays. You wouldn't see my gran carrying on like that. Knitting, that's more her speed, or a spot of croquet in the spring.

At any rate, I've Super Glued the pennies, this time. If that geezer comes back, he's out of luck.

Unless, of course, he takes the whole shoes.