Like all the world's great problems, it started on a whim. Rite Aid had a promotion where they'd rebate a percentage of the purchases you made during an entire month. Spend $25 and get a $5 gift certificate. Spend $50, get $10, etc. Save the receipts, type in the info online, and presto! A happy surprise in your mailbox.

Now, obviously they wanted people to buy stuff, but that was the last thing on my mind. Half their stock was overpriced toiletries, and the other half useless crap. I had eight bucks to get me through the month, so needless to say I wasn't going to blow it on a stick of Mitchum or a bunny rabbit windsock.

No, my plan was to cash in on other peoples' receipts. New Yorkers never took them: what, like they'll need proof they spent forty bucks on a bottle of Tide? I knew if I looked around the checkout counter there'd be hundreds of discarded receipts just waiting to be claimed.

I threw on a coat and ran to the nearest Rite Aid. Nothing. There wasn't a single scrap of paper on the ground. I pretended I was interested in the candy bars as I watched the people check out. I couldn't believe it. Every single person took their receipt.

Two hours later, with my back aching, my feet swollen and my stomach growling, I conceded defeat. I grabbed a Fast Break bar and the checker rang it up. "That'll be thirty-three cents, please."

Huh? I thought. That's crazy. That's almost a meal, with no dirty dishes. I got eight bucks worth and ran all the way home clutching the receipt in my hand.

I'm typing in all the information when the devious part of my brain fires up. Most people spend more than eight bucks at Rite Aid, it says. And it's not like this promotion requires proof or anything. Who's to say I didn't "accidentally" transpose a couple digits? Why, that'd be awful. I'd cash in, and nobody would ever know.

The next day I get an email from Rite Aid telling me to go to their website and check out the status of my rebate. I'm shaking like a leaf when I log in. CONGRATULATIONS! it says in big red letters. YOU QUALIFIED FOR A ONE-HUNDRED DOLLAR GIFT CERTIFICATE!

Now, an infinitesmally small part of my brain does a happy dance while the rest of me turns white. I click to see details and a list of my purchases comes up. There's adult diapers, duct tape, vienna sausages, and women's pantyhose. There's hair dye, a girdle, and a case of Chef Boyardee ravioli. There's a Clapper and a Chia Pet.

My total is five hundred and twelve bucks.

Holy shit, I think. I am so fuckin' dead.

I mean, if I'd stumbled upon a $25 receipt, I could have assumed the real buyer would have tossed it. One thing I love about New Yorkers is they're nowhere near as bored or cheap as me. But when somebody's got a five hundred dollar receipt, you can be pretty sure they're going to squeeze every freakin' cent out of it, and probably file it away for tax deductions.

Somewhere at Rite Aid Central, somebody's computer is beeping. And it's saying, "Hey, two people submitted a five-hundred-dollar receipt! Get security on this STAT!"

So now I'm sitting here, waiting for that knock on the door. I'm thinking it'll be guys in suits and dark sunglasses. "Mr. Hans," they'll say, their shoulders blocking out all daylight, "we've got a question about some purchases you made."

I'll hem and haw but eventually I'll blurt out the truth: I'm a cross-dresser with a bladder problem, and a yen for bad food and cheap gifts. They'll shake their heads, thinking nobody would stoop that low for a lousy gift certificate.

On their way out I'll offer them each a Fast Break bar, and when they drive off the real celebrating will begin.