I was picking up my truck (the least manly truck ever) from the shop today, and I had the worst/best converstion EVER. Actually, it wasn’t so much as a conversation as this gentleman telling me a story with me giving the obligitory audible confirmation. My truck (the least compensative ever) was delayed by complications so I was stranded in the lobby for a longer than usual legth of time.
While I was waiting, a gentleman came in to get an alignment on his car. Normally, I don’t make a point of evesdropping, but the guy made a point of including me in his story so I felt obliged to listen, lest I be rude.
Gentleman: “Yeah, so I need to get an alignment on my car. The white Ford Taurus.”
Resptionist: Something not important.
Gentleman: “Yeah, the cops had to tow my car and they used one of those flatbed towers…only someone forgot to put on the emergency break or someting ’cause it slipped off.”
Receptionist: Some inquiry about why the police were towing his car.
Gentleman: “Yeah, well, I was sort of stabbed on Friday night…three times.”
Me: “Stabbed?” (I was calm.)
Gentleman: “Yeah, well, these punk kids were steppin’ to me and I don’t take shit from nobody, you know? Anyway, like, when I was a hood, I would punk other guys, but never stepped to no one’s chick or mom, you know. But there was, like, seven of them and one of them stabbed me a couple times.”
Me: “So why did the cops have to tow your car?”
Gentleman: (As if it was obvious): “‘Cause I drove myself to the hospital” (To point out the obvious, he added a “Duh!” in the punctuation.) “My car was filled with blood. It was evidence.”
Gentelmen: “Check this out!”
Me: (…I didn’t ask.)
He showed me his scar. However much of his story was true, I can confirm he was indeed stabbed. Repeatedly. I drove my truck (kind of sissy truck) home.