You Ain't Gotta Lie to Kick It!

My gas station sells little trinkets that some guy with a lisp brings to us every month. It's all asshole junk - the stuff that sleazy, cheap guys buy for their sleazy, overweight girlfriends. Things like: stuffed bunnies holding pillows that say, "Jesus Loves Me"; lighters shaped like cars; *N'Sync lip balms; miniature manicure sets ("Carry them in your purse!"); tiny Bible keychains; etc. The guy who runs this company must be a hundred-thousand-aire. The only time we sell any of these products is when the aforementioned sleazy people come in.

So this dude drives up in his 1987 Mustang, Bondo grey, tonight. I'm busy backing my car up against the wall so people won't bug me when I'm closed. It's about 10:45 PM, five minutes before I close... at 11:00 PM. Heh. Anyway, the guy is a sleazeball - he's got bloodshot eyes, a badly trimmed mustache, dusty blonde hair that's slicked back because he hasn't washed it in ages, and one of those leather vests over a denim button-up shirt. So he purchases a pack of Marlboro Lights and on his way out... GASP!... the "merchandise" catches his eye. "Whoa, look at these dreamcatchers!" he says. (For those of you who don't know, dreamcatchers are made by certain Native American tribes to ward off bad dreams at night. They look like a leather hoop with spiderwebs in them, feathers or beads or both dangling off the bottom. The dreamcatchers we sell are made in China.) "These are nice!" He buys two black ones.

I ask if he needs a bag. He begins to tell me about one that he has at home, a large one with a picture in the middle of the web of a wolf... which he paid a thousand dollars for. He also lets me know he's got another one coming. Trying to stifle a laugh, I again ask him if he needs a bag. "Oh yeah, two seperate ones please, I don't want them to get tangled up!" Of course, you don't want your crappy, $3.99 plus tax, made in China dreamcatchers to get tangled. No no, that'd be terrible. So he's about to walk out the door with his two bags.

He then points to his car and asks me, "You think she's a five oh?" (Referring to the number of liters of gasoline the engine can hold maximum.) In my experience, most people who refer to Mustangs are talking about fives, so I tell him this. "Oh yeah, she's a beauty. A 5.0, 420," cubic centimeters, "She pulls about 600 horsepower. 400 heads, 400 cams, 400 tranny-somethings, etc." Wow, that means absolutely nothing to me, but I nod impressively.

"Oh yeah, I've got a Mach-3, too. 1968. Bored out totally. All the heads are bored out to the max!" He gives me the 400 schpiel again, and adds, "400 torque-ratio-blah-blah-blahs." Again, nonsense to me. Bullshit, too, but nonsensical bullshit. I let out my breath in a "Phew!" and once again nod as though I were impressed. I point to my car and say, "Yeah, just got my piece of shit out there. Gets me back and forth to school, you know."

"Yeah, I've got a 1963 Camaro, canary yellow. You remember the ones with the black stripes and all?" Again, the 400 stuff. "And a '57 Chevy, too. The rear has been shortened nine inches. She's got the fifties in the back and the sixties in the front. The smaller the number, the wider the tire." I'm trying my best not to laugh at this guy, at this point. He probably thinks I'm dumb, and just buying his bull, even though I told him I close at... 11:00 PM. "Yeah, all my cars are in those hot-rod magazines," He points out to the Mustang, which knocks louder than my car, "When I'm done with her, she'll be in them, too."

And just when I thought he was done, and going to leave so I could close, he pops another whopper on me. "I own two of the Nascar cars, too," he says. "Number 63," I think he said 63, "and 99. Yeah, I got people who drive for me." I'm sure you can imagine how tough it was for me to not laugh in this man's face, but I let out an impatient sigh and he continued.

"My father owns the Kodak car, number 2, Sterling Something-or-other. He was friends with Dale Earnhardt. They grew up together." Then he looked at the ground, real sad-like, and said, "Tough thing to have happen." And just as I was about to let out another sigh, he slapped the counter and said, "Well, I'm gonna let you close up and all. Have a good night!"

"You too!" I called out after him. And as soon as the door closed, I yelled to nobody in particular, imitating Chris Rock on Ice Cube's song, You Ain't Gotta Lie to Kick it, "Yo Cube, check it out! I got the Benz 9000! It's got the PlayStation in the windshield, nigga!" and closed the store.

After all is set and I'm in my car, ready to leave, a cop pulls in. I'm thinking it's one of the cops I know coming to check on me, but it's a cop I've never seen before. He gets out his flashlight and comes over as I'm opening my door to get out and say hello. "What are you doing?" he asks me, really stern. I explain that I'm leaving, show him my Mobil uniform under my jacket with the "Top Performer" gold pin above my name. "Oh, you're awful close to the building," he says, pointing the flashlight in my face. "Oh, I'm sorry," I say, "I do that so when I'm closed so people don't come to the window and yell at me. Mike [last name] or Carlton [last name] never said anything to me about it -" He, of course, was kind of startled that I just mentioned two of his fellow officers' names. "Oh," he interrupts me, "Sorry, I'm new on the force, it looked like you were backing into the store or something." Backing into the store? "Have a good night, sorry about that!" And he drives off.

Gotta love it.

As an addendum to my previous post about my salacious sister, Lio Convoy said to me, tonight:

Yeah, I want a bowl of capers and ice cream! With sardines!