Scene: Muslim bodega, 11 p.m.
The guy in line in front of me had bought a six-pack of Budweiser, so as I plunked my carton of Vanilla Swiss Almond on the counter, I asked the cashier if he wanted to see i.d.
He smiled in bewilderment. “For ice-a cream?”
I chuckled. He chuckled. He thought it about it for a minute.
“Maybe some day,” he mused, as he gave me my change, bagged my purchase, and sent me on my way.