A wave of gasholes came into the Arco tonight while Serj and I were working the cash registers. I was pounding those register keys and grabbing twenties as fast as I could go. The gas addicts were lined up out from the pumps, crumpled bills in their angry fists.
While I was counting out change for one customer, an Asian barged in demanding directions to Artesia Blvd. Without looking away from my cash register or losing my count, I pointed north up Crenshaw Blvd and said, "Just keep going THAT way, sir. You'll run right into it."
After the wave of customers died down, Serj turned to me all serious-like and said, "I think you gave that one guy bad directions. Isn't Artesia the other way?"
"I know," I said.
"What?" he asked.
"Bad manners, bad directions," I said.
Serj started laughing.
"Better manners, better directions," I added, "The man thought his problem was more important than me giving someone their correct change, so fuck him. Let him drive around Los Angeles for a while. It's good for the gas station business."
Serj couldn't stop laughing.
From deep, deep in the cotton-pickin' red clay'd piney woods o' east Texas, I bring you the tales of my sister Bethzilla, hideous freakin' white trash welfare-cheatin' pill-popping, bowl-smoking, vodka-swilling redneck swamp thing what done crawled up out of the danged boggy bottoms of Uncertain, Texas and also of Momma, a transplanted, dirt-floored, rice paddy, hand-raised Cajun girl from the south Texas depression era. Take a look see. Go ahead, lookee.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Bad Manners, Bad Directions
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