Meanwhile, I notice Bruce outside, jumping up and down like a maniac. He's tapping on the window furiously, motioning for me to come over. I make my way over to the window-he's pointing at some woman quickly walking away up the street, and he's yelling at me to get out there. So I walk out the door.

"Grab that woman!" he shouts, pointing to the woman again.

I look at her. "Why?"

"Because she just stole all of the toilet paper from the bathroom and shit all over the seat and the floor!"

"That's disgusting!" I say.

"Grab her!" he yells, waving his hand in her direction as though he and it have become unhinged.

"Why? What do you want me to do with her?"

"Get our toilet paper back!"

This is one of those "what am I doing here?" moments that I have, probably, once per shift. I really need to get a regular job again. Though I swore to myself I would never work in an office again after I once spent three hours organizing my former boss's PEZ collection, only to have her yell at me because she likes them arranged in such a way that no two same-color stems are next to each other.

"You grab her," I say.

"I can't. I'm a man. I'm a triple black belt. I don't want to come off as attacking her."

"Then let it go."

"No," he blasts. "She stole our toilet paper, and it's not the first time she's done it."

"Is she a customer?"

"No! She just walks in and goes straight to the bathroom."

"Did somebody clean the bathroom up yet?" I ask, glancing with no small amount of dread in that direction.

"Will you get moving? She's getting away!"

"I don't know what you want me to do, Bruce. I'm not going to go and grab that woman."

"If you want to keep your job you are," he says with his chin out and his eyebrows raised. This is total bullshit. I'm supposed to chase some freak of nature down the street? Some freak of nature who has just shit all over our bathroom and stolen the toilet paper? Because Bruce can't spring for a couple extra rolls?

So I start after her down the street and catch up to her. Sure as shit (pun intended) she's got all of our toilet paper in her tote bag.

"Excuse me," I say.

"Piss off," she says.

"I don't want any trouble, ma'am. But my boss would really like his toilet paper back."

"I don't have your fucking toilet paper. Leave me alone or I'm calling the police."

"I see the toilet paper in your bag, ma'am."

"Aaaaaaaah!" she screams at the top of her lungs, which scares the hell out of me. She also has a few longish hairs growing out of her chin. I look back at Bruce, who gives me the thumbs-up. This woman is insane, and I want to go home. But if I don't come back to Bruce with some toilet paper I'm going to, once again, be out of a job. This is total bullshit.

"Look," I say. "Can you just give me one roll? If I walk back to the restaurant with nothing, I'm going to get in trouble. I'm not even asking you to split it with me. Just one roll is all I ask." I look at her pleadingly.

"Eat shit, you little tramp!"

I take a breath. Inhale . . . exhale.

"One roll," I ask again. She starts walking away again. I don't want to touch her, but I can already hear Bruce yelling at me, "Why didn't you grab her?" Blah, blah, blah. I don't know what to do. So I grab the bag, and it becomes a tug-of-war. She screams some more. People are turning, looking to see what the commotion is. Then I see Brady, my neighbor. He too is looking at me-at what apparently looks like me trying to steal this woman's bag.

"Help! Police!" she screams. Brady's watching this with the most confused and horrified look on his face that I've ever seen. The kind of look that tells me, if he wasn't sure before, he's now 110 percent positive that I'm insane. And why shouldn't he think that?

I've had it. This woman is making a scene and making me look even worse. Bruce is tapping his foot, which I know means nothing good, so I just decide, fuck it. I've already got one hand on the tote. I reach in, grab two rolls of toilet paper, jerk my hand back as she tries to bite me, and storm back to the restaurant. As I'm walking back, I see Brady's jaw drop. So I do the only thing I can think to do, which is give him the finger, and then I walk back into the restaurant.

Brady.

Oh my God. There are no words to describe what I just saw. She is totally insane. And a kleptomaniac. And it just so happens that the restaurant my neighbor walks into after stealing toilet paper from an old lady is Temple. The same restaurant where the John Ritter incident took place. That place is nothing but bad news, so if she works there, it's fitting.

I sneak over and peer into the window. Lo and behold, there she is taking an order. What was that hideous display I just witnessed? A mini break to mug a bag lady and loot some Cottonelle?

She spots me and ducks. But a second later I guess she thinks better of it, because she walks straight over to the window and says, "What?" I can't hear her, but I can read her lips. And even though there's a glass partition between us, I'm fairly certain her tone wasn't warm and welcoming. Frankly, I don't know why she's giving me an attitude. I didn't do anything except witness her thievery. Which reminds me, I want to listen to the Thievery Corporation CD when I get home.

I just walk away. I shake my head and walk away. This girl is a menace. On my way home I walk right past porn legend Ron Jeremy. I tell ya, nobody can wear tube socks like that guy.

I get home, throw on the Sounds from the Verve Hi-Fi CD, brew myself a cup of coffee, and plan my strategy. I'm starting big. Hershey's makes chocolate milk and they'd be lucky to have my Cinnamilk. I Google Hershey's and find their Web site. Incidentally, I think it's fascinating that Google is a verb. Here's something that didn't exist a few years ago, and now there it is, noun, verb-and something I, frankly, can't live without. And if it's not officially a verb, it is now. You're welcome.

I get the phone number off the Web site and place the call. The conversation is as follows: "Hershey's customer satisfaction, this is Darlene, how may I help you?"

"Hello, Darlene. I'm looking to get in touch with the main headquarters. Do you happen to have a number I can call?"

"What is this regarding?"

"It's regarding a new product idea."

"I can forward your comments to the corporate office, and they'll get in touch with you."

"I appreciate that," I say. "But I kind of need to speak to someone directly."

"You're speaking to me," she says. Is that the tiniest edge I hear creeping into Darlene's formerly sweet voice?

"Yes, I am. And while I do appreciate your time, Darlene, I really need to speak to someone about setting up a meeting. This is a potential gold mine here. And someday you can say you were part of that first phone call. So if you'd be so kind as to point me in the right direction-"

"I'll tell you what I'll do . . ." she says, shaping up.

"What's that?"

"You can tell me your questions or comments, and I will forward them to the corporate office, and then someone will get back to you." This is the same canned response that she gave me thirty seconds ago. Not only do I want those thirty seconds back, I want Darlene to be fired.

"It's not a question or a comment, Darlene. It is a product idea."

"Then tell it to me, and I'll pass it along. And someone will-"

"Right, I know. Someone will get back to me. Here's the thing. I'm sure you're a great gal, Darlene. I am. But I don't know you. This is a multimillion-dollar idea. Do you think it would be wise for me to discuss it with you?"

"That's how we do it," she says flatly.

"Well, I can't tell you."

"Then is there something else I can help you with?"

"No."

"Have a Hershey's day," she says and hangs up. I want to punch Darlene.

Well, that didn't work out quite as I'd intended. Maybe a trip to Hershey's headquarters is in order. Or maybe I'll just call Knudsen, Tuscan, Borden, or Parmalat.

I'm about to look up their Web sites when I hear drumming on my door. It's Zach. He knows I'm not really in Florida. I let him stay out there and drum for a few minutes, but then he breaks into song.

"Josie's on a vacation far away . . ." he sings in a high-pitched voice that actually does the song justice. Then again we're talking about The Outfield, a one-hit wonder if there ever was one. He does this to embarrass me, and because he knows I'll get off my ass and open the door. And I do. 'Cause if I don't, I know that "Sister Christian" can't be far behind.

"Perfect crime," he says as he breezes past me and opens up my refrigerator.

"I just got off the phone with Hershey's."

"I was in the record store the other day," Zach continues.

"Hey, Hershey's?"

"In a sec," Zach says with a wave of his hand. "I'm just about to walk out with my DVDs-"

"Your porn DVDs," I interject.

Zach does not even acknowledge. "And this girl walking in sets off the shoplifting alarm with something in her bag. Here's the plan: we figure out what sets off that alarm, equip somebody with it, stuff a backpack full of Lord of the Rings trilogies, then time our departure to coincide with the arrival of our confused friend-who can't figure out why this thing he's bringing into the store has set the alarm off. The embarrassed security guard, not wanting a lawsuit, waves everybody ahead."

"Shoplifting-is our coup de grace?" I say. "What are we, a bunch of troubled high school sophomores?"

"Okay . . . how about this? I send you a letter in a resealable envelope, and you stick your reply inside, reseal it, then write 'Return to Sender' on the front. Full round trip for the price of a one-way."

"That's great, Zach," I say. "We'll make our fortune by bilking the government thirty-five cents at a time."

"For your information, it's more like thirty-seven . . . or thirty-nine cents now. Okay, now what's your thing?"

"Just got off the phone with Hershey's."

"And?" he asks.

"Bitch wouldn't help me at all and told me to 'have a Hershey's day.'"

"That's a little Disney-ish."

"It's something-ish."

"Ish," he says.

"Hey-guess who I walked past on my way home?" I ask. And then I answer, because he's not going to guess. "Ron Jeremy."

"That guy's fucked like every girl in the world."

"Well, every porn star," I say.

"I never got that. The guy is ugly. He reminds me of a guy I used to get pizza from. The pizza guy'd show up, and we'd have bad dialogue for a couple seconds, and then the next thing I knew we were fucking. Wait a sec . . . he was a girl. And there were two of them. Yeah, that's it."

"Really," I say, "how is it that guy got all those parts?"

"I think it was that one big part," he says. "But maybe back then it wasn't so much about the looks as it was about the . . . sex."

"Or maybe it was about who was willing to fuck in front of a camera for fifty bucks."

Zach nods in solemn agreement. "That's a good sighting. I'd say you're in the lead, but I had a good one the other day too, and forgot to tell you . . . who was it?" He taps his chin. Then his finger rises in discovery. "Oh! It was the woman from the Palmolive commercials."

"Madge?"

"Yes, Madge!"

"Nice," I say. "How'd she look?"

"Dude. It's not like she was ever hot. What do you mean how'd she look? She looked like Madge."

"True. Madge might beat Ron Jeremy."

"Could be a tie," he offers.

"I think you're in the lead," I admit. Zach and I have this ongoing competition of B-list celebrity sightings. Anyone can see Britney Spears or Harrison Ford. Living in New York, that's shooting fish in a barrel. To us, it's much more exciting to see someone like Gary Coleman or that guy from Bosom Buddies. Whatever his name is. The one who didn't have Tom Hanks's success. The one who's probably bitter as hell right about now.

"Come downstairs," Zach says. The bar he works at is conveniently located right down the block from my apartment, and tonight is a karaoke night.

"Can't. I'm planning my strategy."

"Come have a Jameson and then plan your strategy."

"Because that's good advice," I say.

"C'mon," he says, brushing off the sarcasm as though it were dandruff. "Just hang out for a little bit. You know I get the ladies in there. You can have some of my spillover."