Sam's Club

In Sam’s to buy toothpaste,
a year’s supply for $20,
I saw a squirrely man, a
beanpole with glasses
buying a case of Sam’s Choice
condoms. He looked like
the kind of man you see on
an expose of internet
predators: innocuous,
squirming in his own skin.
I imagined his condoms
gleaming beneath a police
flashlight, sitting next to his
spare tire, a six pack of Colt .45.
He checks out and leaves,
clutching his purchase to his chest
like it needed to be burped.
I watched him go through
the warehouse double-doors,
half expecting him to be tackled
by a uniformed officer. He disappeared
in the sprawl of bright car hoods,
lens-flare mirrors. I put my toothpaste
on the conveyor belt, wonder if I should’ve
narced on him when I had the chance.
I feel guilty for assuming I know his motivation
and weirdly hollow, like I’ve missed
an opportunity to catch my white whale.