Gorilla consumerism would be the term I’d use, not theft––we did pay for it after all, just not during traditional store hours or with permission. Preordained would be another applicable term, because when we got to the mall’s dollar store and found its folding gate doors locked tight we deflated and kicked at the floor’s pixilated-vomit tile pattern in defeat––until we saw that the only shelf in the store close enough for us to reach through the gate also held what we’d travelled all of five-minutes from the park to find: a Frisbee.
It’s not often that I actually want to play with a Frisbee; its novelty wears off faster than I can throw it, but sometimes the mood, with the aid of beer, strikes just right. I tore a page from my notebook and wrote a receipt-of-explanation.
“Unfortunately we arrived after you had closed shop… but please understand that it’s gorgeous outside… Enclosed is $5.00––$1.00 more than the asking price. Again, we apologize, but we just really wanted a Frisbee.”
We folded the money into the note, slid them under the gate for the owners to find the next day and took the Frisbee. The big dopey smiley face on it a strange comfort as we sped walked out of the mall.