Obviously, I was upset. I told myself that the offender was probably just someone passing through the neighborhood, perhaps a drifter who didn't know anything about Hawaii. The next day, though, I found that my crossword had been done again. I had a problem.
I lamented about this with my friends, who all suggested that I, to quote them, get over it. So I tried some alternatives. I started bringing my own newspaper to the coffee shop, and I downloaded a crossword puzzle app. Neither made me feel like I belonged, though. They made me feel angry.
I'm not proud of this, but if I got to the puzzle first and didn't know an answer, I would fill in wrong, mean answers in the hope that my rival would see them. What's a seven-letter word for a river in Russia? I don't know. How about (rhymes with) DUCK YOU?
This went on for months, until one day there he was: scone in one hand, my puzzle in the other. A man I took to be in his 80s, with a cartoon sheriff's drooping mustache. I watched as he sat at a nearby table and started marking up my puzzle.
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