Already, I was a little disconcerted to see the same old guy trudging
across the asphalt at the gas station. It was definitely the same old
guy that had reminded me to turn off my headlights a mile away only
minutes before. So maybe I was feeling just a tad paranoid, and yeah,
it crossed my mind that I might be being followed for some sinister
reason. I get so tired of that.
I had just about convinced myself that I only THOUGHT it was the same
old guy because of the similarity of the clothing and the general
parking lot ambiance that leads me to pay attention to people only if
they are holding weapon-like objects. I was well on my way to
convinced when a purring voice said, "Howya doin?"
So I turned and looked and nearly fell over. It was disorienting to
see that the speaker was indeed talking to me and that he was not
inches from my ear, but a few yards away. Some fucking ventriloquist
trick, I thought. Since he continued to walk away I answered politely
without preparing to club him with the gas cap. I was feeling a little
more dizzy anyway: he was a truly beautiful specimen. I would have bet
money that he smelled just wonderful if not for the gas fumes. I had
his undivided attention for a full second, long enough to get the idea
that he was acting out of some compulsive attraction. Whew! Better
fill that tank and get outta here. I started to ponder what I could
have done to earn this sort of attention: just too appealing for my
own good, I guess.
Hopping in the car and feeling for the keys, I was startled as he
leaned into my window, and damn, he did smell good. He handed me his
card as I noted his smooth brown scalp, his expensive tie, his
enormous smile. He said, "Come and see me when you want another one."
I nodded. I would see him and get another one. Yes. I will be needing
another one. Yes.
SLAP! Another what? Another card? Another peculiar gas station
encounter? Examining the card, I see that it is introducing my lovely
new friend as a Buick Salesman. Duh. I'm driving a borrowed Buick.
He's magnetized to my wallet. As he speeds away, I daydream about
buying a Buick from him anyway. Then I decide that my next car really
should be a Buick...
It took a full day to completely recover. I hear there exists a Bob
Black, but now I know where to find the black "Bob."
My sig is not under construction. It's dead. email@example.com
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