They're going to ask me for directions, but not in that way.
"Yo, man. Can I bum an East?"
Outside that door lies/lays/layeth/laid a world of wackos, I tell ya. My favorite was the drunk guy who tried to take the lit cigarette out of my hand. He just ambled up to me, carried two open 24 ouncers of Bud in one hand reached out to with two fingers, busting a move on my cigarette.
I wasn't sure how to respond to this, so I just sort of stared at him for a second, like "what the hell do you think you're doing?" So we got into a staredown. I was letting go. He wasn't giving up. Til finally he muttered "ummagumma gimme one".
I have a hard time saying no to people. But this wasn't one of those times. You don't mess with my shit, dig? At least he had his 24 ounce cans of Bud to keep him company.
I've also bumped into both Crom and Cryfok out there, out of the blue. They were not on meth. Nor were they wackos.
Sometimes, maybe a pretty girl would come by and ask me for a light. She'd tell me that she's embarrassed because she's not a real smoker, and she doesn't know how to light it ‘that smoker way'. She'd be smoking cuz she's stressed out because she just found out she got laid off.
I'd give her a light and tell her I'll buy her some drinks to make her feel better. She's not on meth.
This whole thing makes a nice little montage if you set it to Belle and Sebastian's "A Century of Fakers". Or the Beach Boys' "God Only Knows".
It's enough to drive me back into the sandbox, I tell ya.
Speaking of which, everyone always gives Brian Wilson flak about that whole sandbox thing. I dunno... what's so wrong with hanging out in a sandbox for three years or someshit? It sounds kinda nice, as long as the cat doesn't pee in it.