A few days ago I was at a grocery store picking up food for dinner, a trail mix of ingredients that appeared to have been harvested from an air filter. I also grabbed some yogurt. The soy kind. I like it's woody taste and it was on sale for 85 cents.
There was a man bagging his stuff, obviously a regular as he was on a first-name basis with the checker. He was either a hippie or a Manson acolyte or a fiddle player or I guess he was just from Duluth. Once they hit 45, every man in Duluth looks exactly alike: Like a hippie, a Manson acolyte or a fiddle player. And he was taking his own sweet time with his greens and grains.
When the checker began ringing me up, she redirected my goods into a pile near Manson. I paid, began bagging. He was still bagging, too. He finished just before me and as he left he turned and gave me a look that seemed to say "I stole one of your yogurts. I dare you to try to tackle me and rip it from my craggly claw."
Sure enough, when I got home I was short a multi-berry.
At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Nah. Who does that, I thought. I'd have noticed. Wouldn't I? Until today. Today I decided it was real. That some bearded stranger is hunkered over my multi-berry soy yogurt as we speak. It's gone for good, though. Being a bearded man in your 40s in this city is like being in witness protection.