The Trial

There I was, strolling out of Wal-Mart with the effortless swagger of a small-time celebrity. Being a columnist of the local newspaper is, frankly, a heavy burden to carry. The public is drawn to power, and as my friends can attest, the paparazzi and autograph seekers are a constant fixture of my life. It’s a cross I bear.

So, when a beautiful young woman came sprinting through the automatic doors shouting for me to stop, I didn't panic. I simply reached for my Sharpie. I prepared a gracious smile, ready to bless her with a signature she could one day sell on eBay to fund her retirement.

Then, she handed me a plastic bag.

"Sir," she panted, "you forgot one of your bags."

I chuckled, the rich, confident laugh of a man who clearly has his life in order. "I think you’re mistaken, miss. I didn’t even check out in your line."

"I know," she countered, undeterred. "I was at register three, but the lady at six told me to run you down." She reached into the bag and pulled out the evidence.

It was a box of Rogaine.

Now, dear reader, we have been through a lot together over many years. I have shared my mishaps and my missteps. But this? This was a judicial overreach. We were standing in the doorway, and a crowd of about two dozen shoppers, let’s call them The Jury, began to circle.

I knew I had to maintain my dignity. I smiled at the poor, misguided lass with the pity one reserves for someone who has clearly lost their mind.

"Oh no... that’s not mine, honey," I proclaimed. To drive the point home, I ran my hand through my hair or, more accurately, through the historical site where a lush, 1950s style pompadour once resided.

The Wal-Mart greeter snickered into her hand. I could feel the Jury's eyes boring into my scalp, performing a forensic analysis of my crown. I realized I was losing the room. It was time to go full Perry Mason. For you younger readers try, Ben Matlock. If you still don’t get it, a Pokémon with a law degree.

"Did you actually see me go through that checkout line?" I quizzed her, my voice booming with the authority of a man who definitely has enough hair.

The girl looked puzzled. "No... but I’m pretty sure it’s you."

"Pretty sure?" I scoffed, playing to the crowd. "Pretty sure? Ladies and gentlemen of the foyer, her evidence is circumstantial at best! There are twenty people leaving this store right now. On what grounds do you single me out as the owner of this scalp-sprouting serum?"

She didn't even blink.

"Yeah," she said flatly. "You were the only one with a bald spot in the back."

The Jury dispersed. The greeter looked away to hide her laughter. I stood there, clutching the bag of destiny, my celebrity status effectively revoked by a nineteen-year-old with 20/20 vision.

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