“Coffee? What coffee?” he blustered. Just as if I hadn’t watched him try the same stunt last week. Wearing the same jacket. Same hat. Same stringy-haired girlfriend.
“The coffee in your jacket, mate,” I said. At least he’d been a bit more circumspect this time. Last week it was a huge 1kg International Roast can that he shoved up his jacket. This time he’d just taken a small glass jar of $15 Moccona coffee. Quality over quantity, maybe.
“@!!## you!” he said, and started to walk away.
“Mate, we’ve got your face on camera. You want me to call the police for coffee?”
He tried to keep walking but his nerve was shot. He dug the coffee out of his jacket and tossed it on the closest register, still legging it for the exit.
“Don’t come back,” I told him, and snagged the coffee.
He turned around for one last salvo.
“You better hope I don’t find you out on the street,” he said.
I raised my brows and said: “Yeah, you keep walking, mate.”
Ya can’t make this stuff up, guys.
Grist for the mill, or merely mundane stupidity? Well, that’s why we’re writers, after all. To answer the big questions.