Holy crap. Wadesboro, North Carolina is ghetto.
For those of you unfamiliar with the term ghetto, let me explain. The ghetto is where the Omelet Shoppe and Anson Mart, home of the discount beverage and cigarette, work hand in hand. Yes, they are neighbors, but not only do they share a road, they also employ the same staff.
I need gas so I pull off of 74, unknowingly entering the kingdom of all that is sketch and triflin'. Yea, I said triflin'. Parked at a mart pump, I walk in for a second to stretch and do human things. The restrooms are easily accessible by location, but the door is locked. Cool. I go to the register and ask "Lady P" for a key. (What a waste of a name tag.) Uh oh, it appears the key is MIA. Aha! Light bulb. Yay, LP. The key is next door at the Omelet Shoppe. She left it there when she finished her other shift. Lady P sends her sidekick, Katrina, over to fetch the key. You see, employees are supposed to keep the key on them rather than behind the counter "so no thieves can yank it." Yes, because every klepto has a soft spot for bathroom keys. Whatever. I await the arrival of the key and move on.
I return the key and breeze through the mart to pump my gas. Before I can make it to my car at Station 2, I am plowed into (no pun intended) by a very large tan man. Coming from opposite directions, neither one of us were paying attention. My interaction with the 462 pound, shirtless, jort wearing gentleman was brief, but ever so poetic. Let's call him Earl. It seems fitting enough.
Earl: Oh shit, darlin' I'm sorry!
SLY: Oh my gosh, no! You're fine! I'm so sorry!
I continue walking away.
Earl: I hope my gut didn't get you.
SLY: Your wha... oh oh, no! You're fine!
Awkward laughter.
Earl: You lost?
SLY: No, I'm good.
I get my card out to swipe for fuelage.
Earl: That thing don't take no cards honey.
SLY: Oh ok, it appears it doesn't. Thanks.
Earl: You can go inside and give the woman money and she'll make it so you can use the pump.
Ok, since I am completely incompetent and unfamiliar with the ways of the world of gas pumping. Thank you, jolly tan giant.
SLY: Perfect, thanks.
I walk by him and head back into the store.
Earl: Want me to wait and make sure it works ok?
SLY: No, I'm good. Thanks though.
Earl: Ok then, I'll wait!
Crap. Seriously? I am not scantily clad nor is my name Bambi. Why is this man so invested? Oh well, he's nice. Whatever.
-
I go inside and attach myself to the caterpillar of people waiting for the register. Two men let me pass them. I graciously thank them and move forward. The man in front of me is apparently friends with the nice gentlemen behind me. They begin to discuss their week and plans for the evening. Silence comes and I feel eyes on me. I stand facing forward and focus on the beef jerky display.
Man: Hey there.
After no one responds to this greeting, I look around and realize its origin was the man in front of me and I was the intended target.
SLY: Oh, hi. How are you?
Rhetorical, duh.
Man: Oh I'm good. I'm real good.
A respectful smirk and head nod, but no response.
Man: You must be stopping through on your way to something better than this.
Confusion follows and then realization that I stick out like a sore thumb.
SLY: Haha, yes. Just getting gas.
Man: Yea I knew you wasn't from here. Lil' girls like you don't like to hang around here.
I realize Lady P and Katrina are taking their precious time seven people up, so I figure why not engage in conversation with the creepy man. Can't hurt anything.
SLY: Oh my gosh, no! It's so nice here, but yes just getting gas.
Man: Ahh, I see you! Where you been?
SLY: The beach.
Man: Where you goin'?
SLY: Home.
Man: Ok, I SEE YOU! I SEE YOU!
Why is this man getting loud? What is so great about my journey? The five hour drive is sooo not voice elevation worthy.
SLY: Yep.
Man: So, where you from?
SLY: Oh about 2 hours from here.
Yea man, let me tell you my home address. Here's the key to the back door while I'm at it.
Man: Oh ok, I see you!
Silence.
Man: You know dat only half yo face is red?
SLY: Haha, yep. Sunburnt.
Man: OK, I SEE YOU!
Ok, we get it. You see me. Please just look at someone else now. Please.
Man: You drivin' that silver truck?
SLY: Truck? ...Oh, oh. Yes, I am.
Man: Damn girl you need ta wash dat.
SLY: Haha, yes I do.
Man: They'll do it for you just down the road for a couple bucks.
SLY: Oh really? I may have to pass this time around. My dad said he would wash it when I got home.
Lie.
Man: Oh, you gotta daddy?
SLY: Yessir.
Man: You want another one?
SLY: Hahahaha. Oh god, uhh. Thank you, but I think just the one will suffice.
I see that Earl is still patiently waiting outside. My new friend notices my observation of the monstrosity of a man and inquires my connection.
Man: You with him?
SLY: Nope.
Man: Does he know that?
SLY: Haha, that is a very good question.
Man: You betta not be gettin' yoself inta trouble down here.
Dude, get off me.
SLY: Oh, that is not my intention by any means. Just getting gas.
Blank stare. Confused look.
SLY: Yes?
Man: Mmmm.. you said a big word I didn't catch.
SLY: Oh, got it. Sorry about that.
Silence.
Man: Ok, ok. I see you. Anyway, so you only date white boys?
Clearly I missed the gradual shift in conversation to my personal life.
SLY: Haha, if I can help it.
Man: A'ight now, I see you.
Silence.
Man: I tell ya what. Let me buy you a beer.
SLY: Huh?
Man: Beer!
SLY: Oh thanks, but I'm heading on. I don't know if that would be the best idea. I'm not exactly a fan of the whole drinking and driving epidemic.
Lie. I love drinking and driving. Duh.
Man: Girl, I wouldn't put you in any kind of danger.
Oh hey, opening statement for every rape and child abduction that has ever occurred. I'm pretty sure this tidbit comes right before the chloroform induced black out.
SLY: Ha, well I appreciate that. I don't care for anything though, thanks!
Man: A'ight, I SEE YOU!
Extended period of silence. I face forward.
Man: I gotta son.
SLY: I'm sorry, what?
Man: I mean I gotta son that looks around your age. He's at da Omelet Shoppe next do'. Lemme go get'em. He's gonna love you!
Wait, what? I'm sorry. Have I really been pleasant enough to where you want to share this experience with a loved one? I am tortured just by listening to myself interact with you. Our 3 minute conversation hasn't even been consistent, much less enjoyable.
Must be because I'm beautiful and white. I'm used to being treated as a goddess, so whatever.
He retreats to the Omelet Shoppe and I move forward. Clearly the surrender of his number two spot in line shows he has nothing better to do this evening.
I step up to check out.
Lady P: You gonna meet Tayrod?
SLY: Tay... what?
Lady P: Tayrod. Mikey J's son.
SLY: Mikey J.?
Katrina: Da handsome fella you was flirtin' with back 'er.
Oh my god. WHAT!? Apparently Katrina is legitimately retarded.
Shocker.
SLY: Haha. Eh, not quite.
I extend my arm to hand LP my card.
Lady P: Yea, das Mikey all right.
I am standing there, arm stretched and nothing. LP is more interested in my budding romance with Mikey J. and my newly adopted son, Tayrod, than taking my money.
SLY: Here ya go!
I put the card a little closer to her face and wave it around a little hoping the shiny object will get her attention. She takes the card and swipes it.
SLY: 20 dollars, please.
Swipe.
Swipe again.
Swipe, swipe again.
Nothing.
Lady P: Is this card real?
SLY: Yes. Yes ma'am, it's real.
Lady P: It ain't actin' real.
SLY: Ok, that's fine. Let me just give you cash then.
Katrina: Shoulda just started with cash. Cash is easier.
Mmm. Thanks, K-dawg. I'll be sure to remember that the next time I am contemplating suicide and decide to drop by this wonderful oasis again.
Luckily Earl realized I wasn't worth the wait. I walk out to my car and he is nowhere in sight. Success.
I pump my gas, reach my 20 dollar limit and get back into my car. I am just beginning to type this epic entry when I see Mikey J., formally known as Man, and a boy whom I assume to be Tayrod exiting the Omelet Shoppe doors and heading my way. Yikes. I swiftly put my car in drive and peace the mess out of Grand Sketch Auto.
Goodbye, Anson County. I hope we never meet again.
-
Ay yo, Tayrod. Call me.
