As I was walking around Los Angeles today, a homeless man waved me over to him. I had no choice because I was walking towards him anyway. It’s a genius plan, when you think about it. He’s already made you comply with his first request.
“Come here,” he growled. “I need some things from Rite-Aid.”
“Sorry, man,” was my response. Or my superhero name.
“Come on, man, I made a list!” He waved said list at me.
I totally should have looked at the list. Just to see what kinds of things were on his real-life Pinterest, and where they intersected with the Rite-Aid inventory, if they did at all. Perhaps the list would have included Fifty Shades of Grey (hardcover), a spider gag and a quart of liquid methamphetamine. Depending on which Rite-Aid you visited, they might have all three.
What a life. I wish I could sit under a tree and bark orders at complete strangers all day. No hobo.
Then an hour later while I’m at a gas station, two guys pull up in a shiny BMW. Guy #2 leans out of the car and shouts, “Hey player!”
I ignore him because I’m not a player. I just crush a lot.
He tries again, this time at bit slower, “Hey! Play…Ah!”
“What!” I shoot back, annoyed. I think I know where this is going.
“Can you hook a brotha up with some gas?”
I shake my head and tell this guy my superhero name, “I’m sorry, man.”
He tries to use ghetto logic on me and holds a gas can out his window. “Hey, you’re filling gas right now, just put a gallon in here.”
“Does this ever work for you,” I ask, giving him a look like if The Rock raised both eyebrows at the same time. I wish I had a picture of me making this face; it must have been awesome.
“Good looking out,” he said sarcastically, “player.” Then they sped off.
Times are tough.