True Story

It was dark.  The kind of dark where you can’t see well.  The kind of dark your heart would be if you were a dick.  A cool breeze whispered Something anecdotal this way comes.  Off in the distance a dog barked, which isn’t that unusual, a lot of people have dogs and they bark.

The time: 1:00am.  The place: Shell Gas Station.  The date: I don’t remember.

My car didn’t need gas, but I needed cigarettes.  Perhaps it was the nicotine-crave that brought me there, perhaps it was fate.  The clerk was asleep – little did he know his peaceful nap would soon come to an end.  He dreamed of ethenol.

I woke him with a knock on the protective glass.

“Pack of Marlboro Lights”, I said in my sexiest voice.

I paid using my Shell Gas Card.  The clerk was impressed.

I retrieved my cigarettes and started for my car, when he came into my life.

He was tall and dark and had poor posture.  He nursed a bag of Fritos which seemed to squirm in his hands as if wanting to return to the vending machine from whence they came – but there’s no going home again.

He intoduced himself as Kenny Anderson, a famous basketball player.  I didn’t know what Kenny Anderson looked like.  Truthfully, I didn’t even recognize the name.  But something in my gut said this Frito-molesting crackhead wasn’t being honest with me.

He said he locked his cellphone, wallet and keys in his car.  He needed to get to a locksmith in Far Rockaway, but alas!, his money is in his wallet which is in his car.  Oh, to be a multi-million dollar superstar stuck in the Five Towns.

All he needs now is a ride to the locksmith’s house in Far Rockaway and a couple of hundred bucks – just a loan!  He swears he’ll pay me back and reassures me that he’s actually Kenny Anderson by offering some official documentation in the form of a ragged, illegible scrap of poorly thought-out bullshit.

I’m tired, hungry and a little stoned, and I think to myself I’ll give this guy a ride, and maybe even give him a couple of bucks, and in return I will feel good for being a good person and I’ll have an interesting anecdote. I had other thoughts as well but they don’t concern this story and are filled with lots of sexy imagery.

I dunno, maybe I felt bad for the guy or maybe I’m an asshole and was fucking with him the whole time.  Maybe both.  Either way, we get in my car and head for Far Rockaway.  I start to ask questions like, ‘what is it like to be famous?’ and ‘how much do you make?’ and a bunch of other bullshit questions (I guess I was fucking with him) to which he responds, “yeah, well, you know, its like, blah blah blah”.

I think he thought I was gonna give him some folding cash, but instead I told him I was broke (which I was at the time) and gave him $2.00 in quarters.  He wasn’t happy but there was nothing he could do – he was not the violent type and had the body of a dead runway model.  I suppose that’s why he relied on his amazing wit and cleverness.  Not to mention the charm that oozed out of him like a wet flatulent.

He took the money and I thought There but for the grace of God…

I went home and Googled ‘Kenny Anderson’.  Not even close.

Anyway, the guy got arrested.

One Response

  1. Ok:
    1. Thats fucking weird as hell – when I was reading this I wasn’t sure you were talking about a dream or something real until I saw the news story. You have some weird ass stories.

    2. “The investigation is ongoing, and police encourage anyone who may have been victimized by the suspect to call 431-1800, ext. 6061. All calls will be kept confidential.”

    Victimized? What victimized – from what I can tell he didn’t hurt or threaten you or anyone else. So who gives a fuck?

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