“I’ve gotta quit hanging out in the ghetto.” That’s what I should be saying to myself. Luckily, I have no plans to ever quit, so this blog shall carry on! This story is from a long time ago, and I mean a LONG time ago. 2013 maybe? It was summer time, about 9:00 on a Saturday night, and I had just arrived at the home of the girl I was dating at the time. Once again, this all takes place on South Hill in Moose Jaw… Shocker… Anyways, I get to her house, she’s got no food, I’m hungry, and Fast Orange needs fuel. I decide to go to the Subway a few blocks away for a sandwich, which conveniently has a Co-op gas station next door. Perfect… Right? Of course not. Nothing is ever perfect.
So I get to the sandwich shop, and I’m telling the sandwich artist how I want it assembled, when this crack-head looking fella comes bouncing through the door. Now, I’m no drug-addict expert, so let me describe him: He’d look tall from far away because he was so skinny, but up close he was maybe 5’8″. He had on a t-shirt that was white once, old pill-balled basketball shorts, worn-out running shoes, and no socks. His hair was reddish-brown, almost an afro, and his facial hair was short, thin, and incomplete. His teeth, or tooths, rather, were bad. Really bad. He had glasses as well, but they don’t ring any comical alarm bells. “Hey, whose truck is that outside?” he asked, immediately concerning me, as Fast Orange was the only truck out there, and I figured he’d crashed into it. “The orange Chevy?” I replied. “It’s mine. You didn’t hit it, did you?” What can I say? Modesty doesn’t get anyone anywhere… “Haha, no man, but we need to talk.” Perfect… All I wanted was a damn egg salad sandwich and a tank full of regular unleaded.
So I go outside to talk to him, and he’s circling my truck pointing out all the imperfections. Nice. The paint color was wrong, the interior wasn’t restored correctly, blah blah blah… I haul garbage with it, and built it on a budget that virtually wasn’t there. He proceeds to tell me that his uncle runs a shop, and that they’d buy it, fix it up, and sell it again, as it looked like a profitable project. He had a real way of sweet-talking me. “Now, I don’t have the cash on me right now, man,” he said with a euphoric confidence, “but I’m prepared to pay up to $7000.” I laughed. How could I not? I’d just spent $3000 on wheels and tires. “$7000?” I could hardly get the words out. “Get bent dude.” I continued laughing, as he stared at me in stunned silence. The assistant sandwich artist who was outside for a smoke was laughing, the guy at the corner on his cell phone waiting for a cab was laughing, and Crystal Meth Customs just stared, completely oblivious to the fact that I had no counter-offer. “Well man,” he said, still stunned. “You might have more into it, but that’s all that it’s worth. Guess we don’t have a deal today.” Then he took off… On foot! A pedestrian wheeler-dealer with no cash or socks. Not only did he take off on foot, he took off in the direction I was going to head after I got fuel. I never went to the Co-op that night. Instead, I fueled up at the Husky about thirty-five blocks north of there, went another twenty blocks east, and took the long way back to avoid seeing him again. Guess who was in trouble for taking almost two hours to get a sandwich? It’s okay though, as I was just dating her “at the time”, and that time has long since passed.