This is a story told to me by a Yaya. I laughed nervously and gratefully because, quite simply, it WASN'T me. Thanks. Y2L.
They needed gas and were in the middle of nowhere. They were lucky enough to find a small no name one pump. You know, the kind boasting of a concession stand which is really a double barrel gumball dispenser from the early sixties where the "Smarties" or "Joo joo beans" inside it have lost all color and are stuck together in one gooey glob.
She got out with a dog on the leash and two little ones. It was a shack with a picnic table warped and splintering in the hot sun. Bent rusty nails stuck up daring those who approached to sit with care. The old man perched on top was just as ragged. His overalls were stained and torn. His face was scruffy and cracked. His lips were dry and needed some serious Blistex. The hat he wore consisted of four holes held together by several stains. His fingers were dingy and pitted from the Marlboro's he'd chain smoked since before Jesus was born. His cough was thick and phlegmy seeming to brew from the soles of his shoes.
"Nice dawg" he croaked.
She waved her poopy bag at him not quite sure what he'd said."I'll clean up! I promise. She really has to go though."
"Atza nice dawg you got dare" he winks and nods toward the crouching animal, hacking a dark ball of something onto the ground.
My girlfriend gave a politely tight no-toothed smile. "Thank you." she said glancing around to spot her two little ones. She bristled.
He came closer. "Ah LIKE dat pooch." he says with a wide open smile revealing grimy teeth that hinted at zombie breath. "Ah don't mean to come so close...most women don't LIKE me up close. But yer dawg...I cain't git over her. Tell ya what. Ah'll give ya hunert dollers fer dat dawg."
My girlfriend was stunned. "What?"she laughed nervously. Where were the kids? Where was ANYONE?
"Hunert dollers. Mah familee would LOVE yer dawg. I wanna make eet mahn."
"ummm. No. She's part of our family. I'm sorry, but I hope you find a dog." She is looking around and realizes the kids are in the car. She is alone with an old moldy Norman Bates. She makes a concerted WIIIIDE step toward her minivan to avoid the man.
He drags from the cigarette with determination. "You must be doin awlraht if you don need a hunert dollers." and he looks directly at her. With wrinkled sun beat eyes and a tired drawn mouth, he does not seem so friendly now.
My girlfriend wonders if she is in a cell phone dead zone. She keeps walking; not looking at the man, just pulling the leash, dragging the dog and hollering for the kids to buckle up.
"Hunert fifty." he says quietly. He is beginning to see that she IS like most women and that she doesn't want him so close to her. The dog cannot keep up with her pace. "Lacey" is tripping over her feet to stay in stride. My friend clicks the key fab and hops in. There is a defiant "SMACK" as the locks slam down. She fumbles briefly with her keys but the engine roars to life. She has her foot half way down on the gas as she rips the car into gear. She doesn't care if it's going forward or backward or sideways for that matter. The dog is wagging at the man who is at her window. She prays she will not end up at the bottom of a swamp. The kids are hopping around playing peek a boo with a grungy old man who wants their dog.
Another couple pulls in. They have a dog. My girlfriend hopes the stranger sees it.
She is all but pointing to it as she pulls away attempting to distract "Norman".
"Lookie there! a PUPPY! Ohhhh how CUTE! I bet it's strong. I bet it's great...." she triple checks her windows to make sure they are up and hits the auto lock a dozen times.
The man watches her intensely as they leave just a little bit of spitting gravel in their wake. My girlfriend stares in the rear view and sighs.
The dog barks. The kids begin to whine and she is perfectly satisfied with that. It's worth so much more than a hunert.
Better days. Safer trips. Myf, and thanks for the story. I think it would be funny if it weren't so damn creepy. ( Only you Baby, ONLY YOU!!!)
Love,
Tess.
