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So I'm coming in from work earlier . . . it's late and dark, rainy and windy. (There was no lightning or thunder, however, so I can hardly use the cliche of a dark and stormy night.)
I stop off at a gas station not far from home, intending to replenish the Dr. Pepper supply, and find something to nibble on. I park under the station's cover, and open the door a crack, intending to finish the already-quite-short cigarette, and then blow my extremely stuffy nose.
Behind me and to the left, I hear a bit of commotion . . . seems a 'gentleman' in a bright yellow shirt has emerged from the restroom attached to the small carwash building, and has ordered the driver of the old Lincoln that was about to pull over and pick him up to back up and park. I didn't know why he would do this at the time, so I smoked and paid attention to that spot every once in awhile.
Soon, I see a bright yellow shirt approaching. The fellow parks his head in line with my upper doorframe, preventing closure, and starts talking, somewhat unintelligibly. "Ah," I think, "beggar or thief." They get the former now and again at that gas station . . . not sure why. It's just an average gas station in an average part of town.
Concerned that this fellow might intend harm, I assessed the situation . . . while using his head as a doorstop was effective if I were peaceful, any wrong move on his part would leave him at a severe disadvantage as the sharp corner collided with his head. I also happened to have an ancient, primative, disassembled hard drive handy . . . a flat, foot-long, heavy block with various protrusions on one side, and a convenient place for use as a handle. So, I was unconcerned about that.
Of course, even beggars can get a bit rowdy around here. Once, as a poor college student, I encountered one such fellow . . . I had nothing on me, and told him as much when he asked for gas money (while holding a case of beer). He started threatening me, babbling something over and over about how I was mean and how God was about to punish me. It was then that he started moving closer. Not being a particularly deity-fearing sort nor a non-jackass, I flippantly replied with "Well, for your sake, I hope He doesn't try to use you as His tool, or He'll fail. And then I'll drink His beer." God apparently decided not to risk losing the beer.
But, I digress.
I was able to pick out bits and pieces of Yellow Shirt's diatribe. Something about his wife leaving him, he and his brother being out of gas, and so on.
"Ah, what the hell," I thought. I figured he was about to get beer anyway, but just in case his tale was true I dug some change from the cupholder (which, conveniently, was right beside the hard drive). I could tell this guy wasn't a 'professional' beggar . . . they usually keep their distance.
It was about $1.50 total, and he extended his cupped hand to take it. Perhaps it was the number of pennies, but I guess he felt it wasn't sufficient. He said something to the effect of "that's all you've got for gas? The Lord said one good turn deserves another."
"Ah," I thought, translating into British-orphan-speak: "Please, sir, may I have some more?"
Then he looked at me funny (I thought demandingly, but perhaps just expectantly) and said "the Lord works in mysterious ways", and kept repeating that along with the ever so Biblical "one good turn" 'quote'.
"Oh, Joy," I thought . . . "another wacko. But I can't threaten this one's beer."
I just stared at him until he finally departed, his tone softening to "God bless you".
I blew my nose in peace, finally able to smell again. We ended up inside the gas station at the same time. I grabbed my stuff, while noticing that he was headed straight for the beer cooler. He saw me looking, and started asking me not to hate him, and retelling the part about his wife. "I don't need the story," I said, "I figured it was probably for beer."
As I left, I stopped the car . . . I noticed Yellow Shirt gulping down the cheap beer, but I was watching to make sure the driver didn't. I didn't see it happen, so I left . . . and I happened to take a circuitous route home.
As my route carried me homeward (sort of past the gas station), I slowed . . . there was a car stopped up the road, just sitting there. It was a new car (or what used to be one), with an upset-looking fratboy standing near it. At first, I didn't see the other car . . . it was off on the other side of the road, outside my rain-smeared window. But I could see that it was heavily damaged around its long trunk. A huge trunk. A Lincoln trunk.
"No way," I thought, circling around for another pass. Yep . . . yellow shirt. I pulled up alongside, my window down, and asked if everyone was okay. The two from the Lincoln immediately started talking about how their brakes failed at the intersection . . . an obvious lie, especially given the red eyes and scent of whiskey on the brother's breath (I was glad it wasn't beer). Yellow Shirt came up to the car with a couple of bags underneath the jacket he was carrying, now reeking of beer and whiskey and stale cigarettes that I hadn't smelled before. He asked me for a ride . . . "I have this beer here, and we don't need the police to see it."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," I said, looking at the broken Lincoln, "because your Lord seems to work in mysterious ways, indeed."
I then backed up to the fratboy's location, and as the now-cursing Yellow Shirt started walking off into the night, I pointed him out and said "I believe you'll find he's walking off with the beer." It didn't dawn on the fratboy that this was important (he was lucid, just stupid), so I simply departed, quite bemused.
-------------------- . . . ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam.
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