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...at the local shooty court down at Windlestrae Park. Not really playing, just shooting hoops. Nice summer day, blue skies. Let me paint you a picture. You got the basketball court, which I usually get to enjoy all by myself because the locals think basketball is unclean or uncouth or...something. You got the playground and parent sittin' hut (or gazebo, whatever) next to it. This is where the bored, probably alcoholic housewives sit and play on their iPads while junior tires himself out. Then at the end, the tennis courts. Usually filled with the type of people that wear Ralph Lauren polos to actually play tennis in. I try to avoid eye contact and generally acknowledging their existence with the lot of them, to be honest. And then there are all of these little walking paths that connect the adjacent park and local neighborhoods. Its actually legit really nice. This whole living in an uppity ass suburb thing is pretty decent, I have to admit. I do stick out like a sore thumb because I still get my clothes at Sears on the account of the fact that I'm a hilljack, but whatever.
But anyway, I'm sitting there shooting around, minding my own damn business as is the MO. Woman and her kids at the playground. Some Asian dudes playing tennis at the tennis court. When out of the blue some disheveled looking guy starts walking up the path towards the court and he's holding 3 VHS tapes.
And when I say disheveled, picture the caddy from Happy Gilmore. Now imagine he's balding and in his late 40s, early 50s. And he walked with a weirdish, lumbering gate. Like Jack at the end of The Shining with the leg injury mixed with the slumped posture of Quasimodo.
So here he comes, VHS tapes in hand, and he makes his way over to the parent hut where some woman was watching her kids playing. They start having this conversation. I'm not even playing anymore, I'm watching, ball-on-hip. And the woman sort of smiles and sort of nods and makes gestures indicating that she wasn't interested in what the man wanted from her. She calls her kids over and they IMMEDIATELY get into their SUV and drive off.
Now I underestimated the guy's agility. Because I'm sitting there staring darts into the whole situation. When all of a sudden, this dude just turns 180 degrees towards me and makes eye contact with me. I'm talking some serious centripetal speed. Like the Tasmanian Devil on the cartoon show. So he sees me. I'm thinking to myself, "Oh crap." Like a total dork caught staring I instantly started dribbling and shooting around.
So here he comes.
"Hey, buddy!" And he has the most hilariously stereotypical South Philly accent ever. "You'se want these tapes? I'll give ya a good deal. 3 for $10."
I'm pretty straight forward at first, "Nah, man. No thanks."
But he wouldn't just accept this. Oh no.
"Come on, man. Its a great deal. How about $5?!"
Yeah. So I'm accessing my mental crackhead resistance database from back in the day. I go straight for the bigger fool canard. "Hey, man, I don't have any cash, anyway. You know who you should ask?" And I point towards the tennis courts, "I bet those guys over there will want them!"
Of course, this doesn't work. But for whatever reason, this dude started getting angry at me. "You know what? **** YOU! I'll have you know that these tapes reveal the location of a secret hidden treasure up in Quakertown! But now? NO! You don't get 'em."
I mean, I don't know what was more ridiculous. If any of you have ever been to Quakertown, I have no idea why anyone would want to drive though there, let alone take the time to conceal a treasure therein. Or that this hypothetical treasure took 3 full length VHS cassettes to completely depict how to access.
But, nonetheless, no deal was reached. And with that, he started walking up to the soccer field/circular runnin' track thing that ran parallel to the above described facilities. And from there disappeared to God knows where.
So I'm standing there...okay, random crazy guy. Whatever. I go back to shooting around. I probably played for another 30 minutes or so. I get into my car to go home and I remember that we were out of milk. So I decided to stop at 7-11 on the way home.
So I get in my trusty old Taurus and take the short drive. I walk to the back, get my milk, and start making my way to the front. As I turn the corner to the register, who do I see standing there holding 2 hot dogs and a Big Gulp? Yup, you guessed it.
He recognizes me. He puts his hot dog boxes down, points at me, and says, "Its YOU! This man isn't a believer! Son of a BITCH! I don't have to take this!"
And so he starts to walk out of the store. The clerk, an Indian dude, goes "Sir, you have to pay for your beverage." The crazy guy turns towards the clerk and says, "I don't have to, Apu. You're not American!" The guy places his Big Gulp on the ground and then, again, walked off into the unknown.
And the clerk, with perfect delivery, goes, "Come on, man. My name is Anish."
But anyway, I'm sitting there shooting around, minding my own damn business as is the MO. Woman and her kids at the playground. Some Asian dudes playing tennis at the tennis court. When out of the blue some disheveled looking guy starts walking up the path towards the court and he's holding 3 VHS tapes.
And when I say disheveled, picture the caddy from Happy Gilmore. Now imagine he's balding and in his late 40s, early 50s. And he walked with a weirdish, lumbering gate. Like Jack at the end of The Shining with the leg injury mixed with the slumped posture of Quasimodo.
So here he comes, VHS tapes in hand, and he makes his way over to the parent hut where some woman was watching her kids playing. They start having this conversation. I'm not even playing anymore, I'm watching, ball-on-hip. And the woman sort of smiles and sort of nods and makes gestures indicating that she wasn't interested in what the man wanted from her. She calls her kids over and they IMMEDIATELY get into their SUV and drive off.
Now I underestimated the guy's agility. Because I'm sitting there staring darts into the whole situation. When all of a sudden, this dude just turns 180 degrees towards me and makes eye contact with me. I'm talking some serious centripetal speed. Like the Tasmanian Devil on the cartoon show. So he sees me. I'm thinking to myself, "Oh crap." Like a total dork caught staring I instantly started dribbling and shooting around.
So here he comes.
"Hey, buddy!" And he has the most hilariously stereotypical South Philly accent ever. "You'se want these tapes? I'll give ya a good deal. 3 for $10."
I'm pretty straight forward at first, "Nah, man. No thanks."
But he wouldn't just accept this. Oh no.
"Come on, man. Its a great deal. How about $5?!"
Yeah. So I'm accessing my mental crackhead resistance database from back in the day. I go straight for the bigger fool canard. "Hey, man, I don't have any cash, anyway. You know who you should ask?" And I point towards the tennis courts, "I bet those guys over there will want them!"
Of course, this doesn't work. But for whatever reason, this dude started getting angry at me. "You know what? **** YOU! I'll have you know that these tapes reveal the location of a secret hidden treasure up in Quakertown! But now? NO! You don't get 'em."
I mean, I don't know what was more ridiculous. If any of you have ever been to Quakertown, I have no idea why anyone would want to drive though there, let alone take the time to conceal a treasure therein. Or that this hypothetical treasure took 3 full length VHS cassettes to completely depict how to access.
But, nonetheless, no deal was reached. And with that, he started walking up to the soccer field/circular runnin' track thing that ran parallel to the above described facilities. And from there disappeared to God knows where.
So I'm standing there...okay, random crazy guy. Whatever. I go back to shooting around. I probably played for another 30 minutes or so. I get into my car to go home and I remember that we were out of milk. So I decided to stop at 7-11 on the way home.
So I get in my trusty old Taurus and take the short drive. I walk to the back, get my milk, and start making my way to the front. As I turn the corner to the register, who do I see standing there holding 2 hot dogs and a Big Gulp? Yup, you guessed it.
He recognizes me. He puts his hot dog boxes down, points at me, and says, "Its YOU! This man isn't a believer! Son of a BITCH! I don't have to take this!"
And so he starts to walk out of the store. The clerk, an Indian dude, goes "Sir, you have to pay for your beverage." The crazy guy turns towards the clerk and says, "I don't have to, Apu. You're not American!" The guy places his Big Gulp on the ground and then, again, walked off into the unknown.
And the clerk, with perfect delivery, goes, "Come on, man. My name is Anish."
