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Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Hard-luck tale runs out of gas on closer look

The young man was on the verge of tears. That’s what first got my attention. I don’t often see young men on the verge of tears, especially on a Sunday morning in the parking lot of a south Spokane grocery store.

Then he walked straight toward me and said, “Dude. Dude. Can you help me out? This has been the worst day of my life, man.”

Now he really had my attention. I registered a few impressions as he walked toward me. He was in his early 20s, red-faced, red-eyed (possibly from crying) and a bit beefy. He was wearing a sports jersey, extra-large, possibly hockey. His trousers ended midway between his knees and his ankles. A tattoo was visible on his ankle.

He was now right in front of me, face full of anguish, arms held out. He did a little pirouette of frustration.

“I have to get home and I need some money for gas because I’m just about to run out. I pulled in here because I’m running on fumes and I live all the way up in Elk, and I don’t have any money to get gas” – he pointed to the Shell station across the street – “and … oh, dude, I have never had a worse day, ever.”

He paused for a second and looked at me beseechingly. I started to ask him what happened, but he was already embarking on a narrative, which I will try to re-create here:

“Last night was my buddy’s 21st birthday so I told him I’d take him out and we got really wasted and we met these people and I don’t know, man, I don’t know what happened, but we ended up going to their house and I can’t really remember who they were or anything but I woke up and my wallet and my key-ring were gone and I’m trying to get back to Elk and I have no gas and I made it to here and, oh man, I just want to get home so bad.”

“How much gas do you need?”

“I tried to call my family, you know, but they’re in church and I can’t get hold of anybody and you gotta help me out because this is the worst – ”

I opened my wallet. His eyes locked on it, but his mouth kept going. “Can’t even buy any gas or nothin’ because my credit cards were in it and …”

I handed him a $5 bill and said, “Here, maybe this will get you home.”

He just kept on talking: “These girls were, like, come to our house and I didn’t even know where we were and …”

I thought it was a little odd, that after all of this, he didn’t gush with thanks or blubber, “Man, I love you, man,” but all I got was more motor-mouth rambling about his very, very bad night. I finally just walked into the supermarket.

I stood in the foyer for a minute to see if he would go to his car and drive to the Shell station. He didn’t. He walked directly toward another customer and started waving his hands and telling the story of his very, very, very bad, horrible day.

Doubts were beginning to creep in. I noticed the second guy didn’t give him any money, so I approached him when he walked in the store and said, “So, I’m curious. Did you believe that guy’s story?”

He looked at me as if I were slow and said one word: “No.”

I finished shopping and walked back to my car. Mr. Bad Day was still in the parking lot. Now, he was standing next to somebody’s car, yakking away. Then I noticed: He wasn’t distraught and pleading. He was in high spirits, laughing and joking with the driver. The other guy was laughing, too. They were clearly pals. Mr. Bad Day handed him a cigarette and they both had a smoke and a chortle.

What the …?

Suddenly, I realized how much of his story didn’t add up. If somebody stole his key-ring, how could he drive his car? If his family was in church, why didn’t he just wait an hour and call them? Finally, why wasn’t he, right now, at the Shell station, putting gas in his tank?

With rising ire, I made a move to confront the guy and demand my $5 back. Then I stopped. Did I really want to get in a shouting match in the middle of a parking lot with two possible meth-heads? I took the smart way out, the chicken way out. I turned around, steaming, and drove home.

Opinion is evenly divided among my friends. Some say my heart was in the right place. Others say I am the biggest chump, ever. I’m leaning toward the latter.

I still don’t know whether Mr. Bad Day was truly in trouble or merely spinning a creative yarn for cigarette and/or meth money.

I still cling to the 1 percent chance that I made a charitable contribution to a fellow human in need. Next time, I think I’ll just donate to United Way.

Jim Kershner can be reached at (509) 459-5493 or jimk@spokesman.com. Find an archive of Kershner’s columns at spokesman.com/columnists.