by Mr. Schnell
I had to fill up the other day so I pull into the nearest service station, go inside and pay for my fuel. I walk back and start filling up when a car pulls into the next stall and the driver gets out smoking a cigarette.
Aware he has my undivided attention, he casually asks, “How’s it going?”
Petro fumes permeate the air. In my mind’s eye all I can see is that inevitable explosion, fire, maybe an ambulance ride to the local burn unit but, more likely, a trip to the morgue.
Momentarily speechless I manage to sputter, “You’re SMOKING!!!!!”
“Why yes I am. Thanks for noticing,” he boastfully utters while taking a long, deep drag, then immediately exhaling a vain display of perfectly formed serial smoke rings. Demonstration complete he turns and walks away, flicking ashes as he goes.
At the gas station store, some 25 feet away, he again turns, faces me triumphantly, disposes of the charred butt in the butt disposal can and enters (apparently inside there is a smoke free, no smoking policy).
He buys another pack of smokes. (He doesn’t need gas yet parked at a pump???)
Meanwhile I am done. Having survived a brief encounter with a typical “fly-over state” local inbred (of which this state is infamous for) I drive off unscathed, feeling lucky to do so, but also shaking my head in disbelief over the whole affair as hillbilly dueling banjos play in my head.