The Booty Wipe Bandit

My wife, Mary, left a 30-roll pack of toilet paper by our indoor trash bins last night.

Dawn hadn’t broken. The air was cold and sharp. I started the truck, engine grumbling, and headed out.

Realizing I had forgotten my briefcase, I went back inside. Coming out, I saw the toilet paper was gone.

It vanished in a minute.

“Mary,” I called, stepping into the kitchen. “You move that toilet paper?”

She looked up, eyes narrowing. “No. It’s still out there.”

“It’s not.”

She picked up her phone to dial 9-1-1, “Someone took it?”

“Hold on,” I said.

Grabbing my keys, I went back to the truck. I pulled out of the driveway slowly, scanning the street.

To the east, a figure jogged, a bulky white package in his arms. It was our toilet paper. I gunned the engine, closed the gap, and rolled down the window.

“Hey,” I said, voice flat.

He tripped, almost fell, eyes wide, caught. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he heaved the toilet paper into my truck’s open bed and bolted, cutting into the neighborhood where steel posts blocked my way.

I let him go. Drove home. Carried the rolls inside.

Mary stood at the door, arms crossed. “You got it!”

“Yeah.”

“We’re not leaving stuff in our garage again.”

“No,” I said. “We’re not.”