Nine coffee pouches a month was, like, twenty bucks. Twenty bucks was nothing. Power to the people, right on. Plus, she had carpal tunnel. Every word she typed was one word closer to never being able to type again and having to go back to cleaning condos for Manny. And Manny was creepy. The things you had to clean in those Section 8 crapholes! Two hundred literal raw chicken gizzards off a kitchen floor. A whole closet full of upside-down cupcakes. Who’d turned them upside down like that? And why? Was Manny the kind of boss who gave you gloves? No, he was the kind of boss who made you walk to Walmart to buy your frigging own.

The way to steal a coffee pouch was: grab one, stroll back to your office holding it down by your hip. Once in your office, plop in purse. If, out in the hall, somebody saw you? Look down all of a sudden at the coffee thingie, go, “Ah jeez, senile much?,” then go back to break room, toss coffee thingie on counter, go, “Criminy, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t hooked on.” Or, if nobody was around, bring your purse right into the break room. Voilà. Ka-ching. Three bucks.

Six bucks, nine bucks, whatever.

Paper towels, same deal, only harder, because bigger. Tuck a roll under each arm, haul balls down the long hall, heart beating like crazy because if somebody saw you, you couldn’t just go, “Ah jeez, senile much?” because you’d have to be pretty dang senile for real not to notice a paper towel roll under each of your arms, plus sometimes you could do two per arm, total of four, sticking out from both armpits.

Last night this guy on the bus had looked over at her like: Uh, what’s with the paper towels, lady? And she’d gone, in her mind: Hey, loser, I stopped by CVS on my way to the bus, up yours, idiot, and by the way, the reason they’re not in a bag is, I told the CVS kid no thanks, because of the environment, unlike you, who just now dropped your frigging gum wrapper on the floor, slob.