OK, so it's 1:06 AM and I can't sleep.

I pulled into the Plaid Pantry on Multnomah and 45th tonight hoping they might have postage stamps for sale. Three cop cars were sitting atop eight parking spots as an ancient Ford truck was being hauled away. I recognized the guy from Handy Andy's, the same one that came in every night to brag about how much he was making in the business. I wanted to say hello but didn't.

The cops couldn't decide which squad car to toss their perp in, a thin man in a flannel shirt screaming about racism. They pushed his head down into one, stopping halfway before hauling him over to the second vehicle. He was worried they were about to shoot him.

Inside, the cashier was shaking his head and cleaning up a mess.

"I'll take these too."

"People seem to love those things. Buy them all the time."

"That's because they put nicotine in them."

"Oh, ok."

"Should I ask what happened out there?"

"Couple of people having a crack party."

"Say no more. I used to work here. Good luck."

Ah, crackheads. That takes me back. I wonder if anyone has stolen three cases of beer from him yet or had the gumption to masturbate in the store. If you're ever in search of macabre personal anecdotes, try a summer job at the local convenience mart.