This Midwestern Life

The first time I saw spray paint out in the open for any dumb teenager to steal I froze mid-aisle and disbelief knocked my jaw open. It was a few cans of some horrid color displayed on a clearance end cap. Surely this was an oversight on the part of the big box store. A test to catch a thug. I thought as soon as I touched a can alarms would sound and I would be escorted out, subsequently banned and never able to purchase my suburban housewife accessories (Essie nail polish, Triscuits, and Magic Erasers) from this store ever again. I looked around for a camera or security guard and then reached for a can to merrily shake like a maraca. I shook the can for a few seconds, placed it back on the shelf and then went on to find David and report what I had just done. In a thrilled whisper I told him "Hey, I just touched a can of spray paint! It's not locked up here!" Where I come from (gang-infested Southern California) spray paint is kept under lock and key. But here in suburban Ohio the spray paint is out like an innocuous roll of paper towels.

There isn't much graffiti or "tagging" where we live. In our tiny hamlet it is mostly immature scribblings and crude drawings done by bored teenagers. I've even seen the "uplifting" kind too, such as, "Breathe!" Closer to Cleveland proper and in larger cities in our county there are probably more gang-related tags. I bet the spray paint is kept locked up in those communities but I wouldn't know because those communities are too far for me to drive to and probably don't have any good shopping anyway.