My dad called me around 10:30 this morning to see if I wanted to join him for lunch. A father-daughter lunch sounded nice enough, so I dried my hair and headed into town. When I picked Dad up where he was waiting at the tire shop, he informed me that our time was limited and he needed to be back to the tire place by 11:30. Arby's it is, then. On our return, he tells me, "Oh by the way, I have to be in Arab by noon, so if my car's not ready you'll need to wait for it."
Let the record state that I had plans at noon as well (a trip to Unclaimed Baggage that merits it's very own blog post), but with minimal, completely justified complaint I hopped out of the car and handed over my keys as Dad assured me it would only be 20 minutes longer.
Our story unfolds as 20 minutes turned into 30 minutes and 30 minutes blurred into 45. Somewhere in the time lapse, a rag-tag group of three-- two men, one woman-- stumble (literally) into the waiting area where I was quietly reading a Southern Living magazine. So much for quiet. It didn't take much eavesdropping-- this was not purposeful, by the way-- to pick up that this little trio had busted their tire on a curb while trying to "dodge a cop" (their words, not mine) and had then walked to our local tire place, picking up McDonald's along the way.
This is where it gets charming: in between f-bombs-- "it is so effing hot" and "this mothereffer is so effing delicious"-- the woman gets a phone call. She answers, looks at her male companion and says, "Tammy wants to know when y'all are gettin married." I wish I was kidding when I say his response was a shrug and, "I don't think I can get my ID today." I don't know much about his relationship with Tammy, but it sounds romantic and passionate to me, the stuff dreams are made of.
The rest of their conversation had to do with Tammy losing $15 and blaming it on her soon-to-be husband, whom we'll call Bobby for lack of ID. Bobby had no idea where Tammy's $15 went; he had been outside smoking a blunt and never actually went inside, so he obviously didn't take it. Fancy-- that's what I'm going to call the lady of the group-- swears that Tammy was too "effed" up to know where her own money was because Fancy herself had given Tammy 3 Klonopin before work and Bobby had given her two after work. Bobby claims that Tammy had taken some Z's as well, which I'm pretty sure mean Xanax but I'm not exactly hip to the jive of drug lingo.
There was also some talk of selling their food stamps and "beating the breaks off" Tammy, but I was mercifully called to the cash register as Fancy plotted against Tammy, who, bless her heart, has a clear drug problem.
In my defense, I wasn't listening in on Fancy and Bobby (the third person was only involved for a few seconds before he retreated back outside for a smoke break), but the waiting room was small and otherwise silent, and they hardly made an effort to keep to themselves. I can only feel sorry for the small Latino child and the elderly man sitting in the waiting room with us.
I know two things for sure: Tammy should watch her back tonight, and my dad is on his own for lunch for the rest of the week.
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