The Tucson Deli is where I buy my cheese. The rusty machine in my cellar allows me to slice my meat at home. Stepping up to the counter, I request one pound of white American cheese which makes me sound like a racist.

When the clerk begins to slice the cheese, I caress myself as each sliver drops onto the paper. Rhythm is everything, and it seems like we are working toward a satisfying conclusion.

The clerk abruptly ceases slicing in order to quiz a mother standing next to me about whether her child would like to sample a slice of cheese. The mother nods her head affirmatively, accepts a slice of my cheese and passes it to her child sitting in the grocery cart.

When I shop tomorrow, my broccoli will be sitting in the same spot where her child is now pooping in the basket. The situation leaves me stunned without my hammer. My eyes shift from the clerk to the mother as I wait for judgement to fall.

I'm as magnanimous as the next guy, but that was my slice of cheese and nobody asked my permission to make a donation. I'm not wearing my Feed The Children T-shirt. Nobody seems to care about my feelings. It's like being at a meeting with ten nurses at work.

I snatch the cheese away from the brat, and he begins to wail like an imprisoned priest. I love children, but not when they steal from innocent people.

The mother screams at me, and demands to know what the hell is going on. I slowly explain to her about how the repo man recovers his cheese. This whole situation helps me understand how the Palestinians feel.

The child is still screaming at the top of his lungs with great gusto. It's rewarding to see him show a little remorse for stealing. A crowd has begun to gather, and it's time to make my exit.

The girl at the checkout counter does not attempt to pilfer a slice of my cheese, which reassures me that the world is back in balance.

Upon arriving home, I weigh the cheese. Trust has to be earned, and then cherished.