Munchers

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And this guy, a grown man, a wife-and-kids type, he’s munching a cookie he hasn’t paid for; he’s munching it at the back of the store. Where he’s munching it, that’s right in front of the dairy section. While he’s at it, the munching, maybe he’s scheming to steal a swig of milk. 

And this guy, let’s be clear, he’s no bum; he’s a suited businessman just stepped off the Metra. Where I’m at is parked in my Daewoo in the lot. And my eyes are on him through this windshield and through that White Hen Pantry’s floor-to-ceiling glass window. My eyes are on him munching that unpaid-for cookie, as my mouth munches a cookie of my own. 

The difference? 
It’s a paid-for cookie I’m munching. 

Then, the guy—cookie crumbs freshly clinging to his suit, his shirt, his tie—he spots me. And there we are, squinting each other, slowly munching our respective cookies into oblivion. 

3 March 2005
 

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