Hey lady!
You got a felony running out of your nose!
So this afternoon after my massage at Spoiled on Tujunga, I went out furniture shopping. Needing to gas-up the scoot, I pulled into the local Union 76 station, where a green Range Rover was parked rather... askew. I went in to plunk down my $2.50 for next week's gas and found there a slightly agitated woman attempting to communicate with the little man behind the counter. I couldn't quite make out what she was saying because she was talking so fast. I don’t think he understood either. She was typical L.A., though; thin, tan, wearing those ghastly winter moccasin boots and a pair of olive green cargo pants of some kind.
But I discovered her most striking feature when she turned to go out the door. Her right nostril was veritably coated in a crust of white powder that stood out brightly against her tanned upper lip. She went out and, as I paid for my gas, I exchanged “the look” with the counter jumper, who tsk-tsked, shaking his head.
When I left the counter the woman was sitting in the badly parked Range Rover, sort of busily hunting for something. I’m not sure why I did this, but I felt a sort of pity. I went up and tapped on her car’s side window. She didn’t hear. Her nostril was still encrusted. I tapped again and she turned and looked at me through the glass as if I had just caught her in the act of having illicit sex with Ghandi in a jetliner lavatory. It was that sort of, “Can I help you?” look. I gave her the universal “roll-down-the-window” finger-roll.
She brought the window down and said, “Yeah?”
“You ought to be more careful, sweetheart,” I said, “you know you got a felony running out of your nose?” I tapped my nose.
She said something incomprehensible and I went about the business of pumping of my slightly less than one gallon of gas. But I turned back to look and, sure enough, she had her face up to the rearview mirror, sweeping the powder away with her hand.
And what thanks did I get, I ask you, for this act of sort-of-Good Samaritanism? Zilch. Nada. Zip. Not even a "Gee, thanks!" Serves me right.
So this afternoon after my massage at Spoiled on Tujunga, I went out furniture shopping. Needing to gas-up the scoot, I pulled into the local Union 76 station, where a green Range Rover was parked rather... askew. I went in to plunk down my $2.50 for next week's gas and found there a slightly agitated woman attempting to communicate with the little man behind the counter. I couldn't quite make out what she was saying because she was talking so fast. I don’t think he understood either. She was typical L.A., though; thin, tan, wearing those ghastly winter moccasin boots and a pair of olive green cargo pants of some kind.
But I discovered her most striking feature when she turned to go out the door. Her right nostril was veritably coated in a crust of white powder that stood out brightly against her tanned upper lip. She went out and, as I paid for my gas, I exchanged “the look” with the counter jumper, who tsk-tsked, shaking his head.
When I left the counter the woman was sitting in the badly parked Range Rover, sort of busily hunting for something. I’m not sure why I did this, but I felt a sort of pity. I went up and tapped on her car’s side window. She didn’t hear. Her nostril was still encrusted. I tapped again and she turned and looked at me through the glass as if I had just caught her in the act of having illicit sex with Ghandi in a jetliner lavatory. It was that sort of, “Can I help you?” look. I gave her the universal “roll-down-the-window” finger-roll.
She brought the window down and said, “Yeah?”
“You ought to be more careful, sweetheart,” I said, “you know you got a felony running out of your nose?” I tapped my nose.
She said something incomprehensible and I went about the business of pumping of my slightly less than one gallon of gas. But I turned back to look and, sure enough, she had her face up to the rearview mirror, sweeping the powder away with her hand.
And what thanks did I get, I ask you, for this act of sort-of-Good Samaritanism? Zilch. Nada. Zip. Not even a "Gee, thanks!" Serves me right.
posted by M2 at 4:23 PM
1 Comments:
HA! You left out the part about buying two bags of ice, one of which is still dominating our freezer.
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