*Originally written on November 28, 2009.
Last night, I had what was, in retrospect, one of the most bizarre conversations I have ever had in my life.I left work around ten PM, and was in a snack-ish mood, so I decided to go to the gas station across the street for a bag of chips for when I got home. I walk in, and after a few minutes of deliberation, I decide to get ranch-flavored chips. Now, I never get ranch-flavored chips, because I know the effect they have on peoples' breath and overall odor. It smells fucking horrible. I get this, hence I don't eat ranch-flavored chips around anyone, ever. Anyways, the half-retarded, socially awkward part of me felt the need to explain this scenario to the man at the counter. This is, essentially, our conversation:
Man: Hey, how's it going?
Me: Well, thanks. (a beat of silence) I'm getting these because I'm home alone, and usually worry about how my breath smells after I eat them. But not tonight! (nervous laughter)
Man: Yeah, my girlfriend is waiting at a bar for me right now with three hits of acid. I was supposed to be off at ten and meet her there at ten-thirty, but the guy that was supposed to work after me called in. I have no way of contacting her to explain this issue, so she probably has already taken one of the hits of acid, hoping that I would be there on time and she would be stoned upon my arrival. (does a complete 180-degree turn in his bulletproof glass-guarded cubicle, kicks an empty box, grunting as he does so, turns back around, and grins at me)
Me: ...I know how that is! (more nervous laughter)
Note: Clearly the gas jockey wasn't this well-read. I'm paraphrasing.
Now, let me show you the exact same conversation, this time with my thoughts added in bold and italics text after each exchange:
Man: Hey, how's it going?
Huh. He seems nice for looking like such a tool.
Me: Well, thanks. (a beat of silence) I'm getting these because I'm home alone, and usually worry about how my breath smells after I eat them. But not tonight! (nervous laughter)
Now I look like a goddamn crazy person. Oh well.
Man: Yeah, my girlfriend is waiting at a bar for me right now with three hits of acid. I was supposed to be off at ten and meet her there at ten-thirty, but the guy that was supposed to work after me called in. I have no way of contacting her to explain this issue, so she probably has already taken one of the hits of acid, hoping that I would be there on time and she would be stoned upon my arrival. (does a complete 180-degree turn in his bulletproof glass-guarded cubicle, kicks an empty box, grunting as he does so, turns back around, and grins at me)
Wait, what?
Me: ...I know how that is! (more nervous laughter)
What? What the fuck? What the fuuuuuuuck? What about my demeanor or appearance made him think that it was even a little okay to tell me about some crazy shit that I don't care about? What the fuck do ranch fucking chips and bad breath have to do with acid and bars and sudden open-ness? Did I give him some secret fucking signal? What the fuck?!
I think it all works best if you think of me having a neurotic, semi-high-pitched voice. But that's just me.
And now, I would like to take a stab at what he was thinking during this conversation:
Man: Hey, how's it going?
I don't know how I know this, but this guy "gets" me, man.
Me: Well, thanks. (a beat of silence) I'm getting these because I'm home alone, and usually worry about how my breath smells after I eat them. But not tonight! (nervous laughter)
He seems to have a dilemma. Let me make him feel better by introducing a dilemma of my own.
Man: Yeah, my girlfriend is waiting at a bar for me right now with three hits of acid. I was supposed to be off at ten and meet her there at ten-thirty, but the guy that was supposed to work after me called in. I have no way of contacting her to explain this issue, so she probably has already taken one of the hits of acid, hoping that I would be there on time and she would be stoned upon my arrival. (does a complete 180-degree turn in his bulletproof glass-guarded cubicle, kicks an empty box, grunting as he does so, turns back around, and grins at me)
I bet he totally felt my angst when I turned around and kicked that box. High-five, self!
Me: ...I know how that is! (more nervous laughter)
See? I knew he "got" me!
I really, really, don't understand how or why this happened. But it did. And I hope gas station acid guy got what he deserved: Some LSD-addled sex in the bathroom of a dirty bar.