The American Spectator

The solemn silhouette of the Food Stamp Emporium loomed overhead as they piled out of Newman’s truck and into the parking lot. “Food Is a Human Right” proclaimed the huge red lettering across the front, although already the paint was starting to chip.

“Are we going to have to go through security, Mr. Newman?” asked Darien as they lifted the folding table from the back.

“No, we’re going to set up outside the gate,” he said.

“That’s good, because the last time I went through security they made me give up my pocket knife,” said Skipper.

“They’d never let us through with this table,” said Jared.

“They’d think it was a bomb,” said Squirrel.

“They think everything’s a bomb,” said Darien.

“Alright, you guys, everybody lend a hand here. Have we got the flyers?” Newman tried to regain order.

“I have them, Mr. Newman,” said Jose, ever the responsible one.

“Mr. Newman, did they have to go through security when you were a boy?” asked Tom Brown as they made their way across the parking lot.

“We didn’t have places like this,” said Newman, not paying much attention.

“Where did you buy your food?” asked Tom Brown.

“We had places called supermarkets,” said Newman, finally starting to register.

“What’s a supermarket?”

“Well, you remember that place Jose’s parents have, where we got the sodas? It was like that.”