As many “local haunts” (whether a mom-and-pop or corporate operation) can’t avoid, there’s always that one beggar skulking around outside. On the prowl. Lying in wait for some crumb or another, whether literal or metaphorical. Trent dreaded these types. And sure, you could call him heartless or unsympathetic and tout ça, but his phobia (for that’s essentially what it was) wasn’t without its merit. It was the result of years upon years of being asked, pleaded with, demanded of. The frequency with which he was approached by the beggars of the city almost made him wonder if he was being explicitly targeted. Or if there was something about his “aura” that was attracting this sort of ilk basically every day. They were like flies to his apparently internal blue light. Or maybe, for whatever reason, they believed something about his look emanated the “tell” of “quiet luxury,” and they presumed he had plenty of money to go around. This type of thinking indicating just how unversed in true wealth they were—after all, those who had real money to go around certainly wouldn’t be caught “hobnobbing” with the hoi polloi. No, the genuinely rich get around on this Earth by paying good money to avoid the common man by any private and elaborate means necessary.

But these people of the streets constantly asking him to spare some change didn’t seem to comprehend that. Didn’t seem to understand how, when you really boiled it down, they were all probably richer than he was in the sense that they had absolutely no debt and no payments to make/bills to worry about. In short, they were all far more “liquid” than he could ever hope to be. This was the honest truth. Though no one, as far as Trent could tell, wanted to look at homelessness through that lens, that rose-colored glass, did they? No, it was all “poor them,” “unfortunate them.” At least they were out the damn game and didn’t have to bother with masks of civility or dignity anymore. Clearly. This based on some of the ballsy moves these beggars tried to make on Trent, who had done his best to sidestep every local haunt that he knew had a regular “trawler.” Someone constantly fishing for cash, rushing toward and practically pressing up against your body like a goldfish flocking to a cluster of freshly-poured flakes into the tank. Alas, there were only so many places that could be avoided. And the bakery on his block was not one of them.

Though he tried his best to go there as infrequently as possible (this meant about twice a week), he had no other option to succumb to it eventually. He needed to get bread. Or dessert. Or a croissant. Maybe it was his French heritage somewhere down the line that made him this way, but the craving—the intense desire—for these specific products was real. And the price to be paid (in addition to the actual cost of whatever he was buying) was running into the vagabond that lurked outside day and night. A man that the owner of the bakery, Marie (an actual French person), couldn’t seem to bring herself to shoo away or call the cops on. And so, like a cat that realizes there’s always a steady meal at a certain house or apartment, this man kept returning. Always running the same gambit. Lying in wait somewhere off to the corner and popping out like a tattered-and-torn weasel. That expression, “pop goes the weasel,” actually alluding to pawning one’s coat. That’s what “pop” was slang for—to pawn—back in 1800s-era Britain. And “weasel” was a reference to the “weasel and stoat”-style coats that were “de rigueur” during this period.

Anyway, it just went to show that the language used today was inspired as much by broke asses as it was rich people. Not that Trent cared one way or another about such things. Indeed, all he really cared about right now was evading the inevitable harassment that this man, which he had taken to calling The Skulker, was going to ambush him with. It would start out with the obsequious route: “Excuse-me-sir, can you spare some change for me to get somethin’ to eat today?” Trent would then shake his head without making eye contact and say, “No, sorry” out loud. Then he would make the mistake—every time—of thinking he could just keep walking inside without any further aggravation. But no, that was never the case.

Instead, what would happen next was this: The Skulker would “tiptoe” into the shop right behind Trent and continue his spiel, likely never realizing (or caring) that he had given it hundreds of times already to the same person. The “pitch” was, in effect, that since Trent claimed he had no money in cash, couldn’t he just “add a little something” to his proverbial tab by taking an order request from The Skulker? The audacity of this man to keep “nudging” Trent in such a manner irked him to no end. Is this what a woman felt like when a man kept pressing her for sex? The Skulker’s machination was practically as irritating to Trent as the fact that Marie never said a word to him about this behavior. Never told him to get the fuck out or anything else of the kind. Why would she, Trent supposed. It’s not like she had agreed to take on the role of a social worker when she became a business owner.

Still, didn’t it bother her to have someone like this hovering around her shop all the time? Potentially driving away customers? Then again, if it didn’t drive Trent away, what were the odds that it was driving away others who were far less easily irritated? And yes, that’s just how good Marie’s bread, pastries and desserts were. He wouldn’t have doubted her customers would be willing to put up with just about anything—any “social experiment”—in order to secure what she was selling. And maybe The Skulker was somehow aware of that, too. After all, he spent all his time here, day in and day out, observing how people ooh‘d and ahh‘d over the offerings. Their delighted reactions to the wares being peddled, as it were. So maybe he had accurately gauged what he could get away with. And that was, evidently, a lot.

On yet another occasion when Trent braved the bakery to endure the blathering beggar, he reached the breaking point that would prompt him to never return. At first, it all went on as usual, with The Skulker insisting that Trent just “add to his tab” and Trent firmly declining to adhere to the not-so-gentle “suggestion” (a.k.a. demand). But rather than retreating back out into the street when this happened, The Skulker had the gumption to call out to Marie, “Add a small black coffee and a croissant to that!” Never before had The Skulker been so brazen, and Trent couldn’t quite figure out what had made him so on this particular day. It’s possible his own desire for Marie’s “tastes” had finally surpassed Trent’s own. Or maybe it was just a matter of his desperation at last getting to the point of “shooting his shot” and willing to miss, no matter how humiliating. And it was humiliating, for Trent was quick to shout, “No! Absolutely not! I did not agree to that!” in front of about six other people waiting in line behind him.

Only, as it turned out, Trent would be the one to be embarrassed by his so-called outburst when the others in the shop, including Marie, chastised him for being so cruel, and then telling him to share some of his “wealth.” The use of this cliched saying finally sent him over the edge and, rather than adding The Skulker’s order to “his tab,” Trent took the croissant and cappuccino he had ordered for himself and thrust it at The Skulker, who had at last won the war. Perhaps living proof that if you persist—refuse to ever relent—then one day, maybe you will get what you’ve been trying to “manifest” for so long. As for Trent, he was going back to the drawing board to find a new bakery to frequent. That is, until another version of The Skulker reanimated there and drove him crazy anew. But what was to be done? “Class war,” even at this “micro” level, could not be averted no matter where you went, or who you were.