I work covering a shift at an upscale women's boutique. A girl with facial pierces and two suitcases keeps trying to steal things and I chase her away repeatedly. She makes a game of it which makes me furious. Finally, I hear the bell and run to the front to see that the cash register is missing. (It is the same cash register that I earlier knocked over while riding my bike in the store, when I broke the owner's favorite laminated paper mug.) I rush into the alcove to see the pierced girl leaving a neighboring boutique, carrying the cash register. It's raining outside. The woman from the neighboring boutique throws me her green jade antique-looking cell phone and I dial 911. "Burglary in progress!" I yell into the phone, but I can't remember the address of the name of the boutique. The girl speaks to me calmly the whole time that it was a joke and I'm over reacting. Eventually, I agree and put the phone down, relieved. The boutique owner and other helpers return and I try to tell them what happened but none of them will listen. They're having a brunch and have their own stories to tell. I eventually give up when some other workers pull me into a discussion about Robert Plant. "He's a very powerful singer," I concede, to make a point for one side of the argument, "but that doesn't mean you have to like him." The other party seems vindicated. I notice Sting is eating a bowl of cereal nearby, and I raise my voice a little so that he might hear. "Ultimately, a singer's affectations are more important than his voice." Sting ignores me. "I like your singing, Mr. Sting," I say. "That makes two of us," he replies, and as he looks at me, chewing, his face boils over with thick wax and takes on the form of a cash register. My friend says, "don't worry about Sting, here's a ring," (it rhymes.) It's a friendly joke. The ring is so small it can barely fit on the tip of her pinky finger.