Recently, I had the opportunity to catch up with my dad and stepmom over brunch. By brunch I mean that they ate stolen caviar with their pocket knives and washed it down with beer. The day started with my dad insisting that we stop at World Market so he could “get” me a Velvet Crumble. I’ve never had a Velvet Crumble; it’s a treat my father used to enjoy as a child in Australia, and I’m told it’s delicious. But the market didn’t carry it, and though I’d love to try one someday, I was relieved, feeling like I’d had a close call.

Over the past few visits, I’ve come to realize that I can’t take my father anywhere he won’t steal something. In the past, I used to join in on the shenanigans and was mostly too drunk to think about repercussions. But now I have children and school, and while I still find it amusing to watch my dad shake out his pants leg while the loot piles up on the floor, I feel uncomfortable being involved.

Somehow I have lapped my father in the responsibility race. I find myself in the front seat of the car trying to explain why he can’t have an open container while he mutters that I’ve changed and I used to be cool.

During his visit in Eugene he stole four leather coats. By the time he was ready to catch his train home to Redding, there was a pile of leather in the corner big enough to make other visitors nervous.

Antique pocket watches from a museum, bacon-shaped Band-Aids, a shock pen, Oregon Ducks sweatshirts, meats preserved in a variety of ways, oddly shaped marshmallows—you can find these things and more, all falling out of Dad’s pants at any given hour of the day. So, if you’re ever looking for Rick, just follow the trail of LED flashlights and honey sticks. He’ll be there.