interpretive truth-telling

Late night. Cooper Young. The parking lot behind Cafe Ole and Young Ave. Deli. A guy stops me and Mr. November, tells us not once, not twice, but FIVE times that he is no bum and no robber, that he locked his keys in his car and his wife and child have been in a car accident in Jackson, Mississippi and please could he have a few dollars because they won't help him down at the police precinct and he needs to get back to his family.

Even if we had been moved by his story -- he managed to get choked up when talking about his family, and I felt my buttons being pushed and remembered that I am a bleeding heart and should not be left alone in these types of situations -- we honestly didn't have any cash on us, and we told him so. We apologized profusely, wished him luck and kept walking down Cooper.

But then? We heard a car door slam. And we turned around to watch the guy start up his engine, buckle his seat belt (safety first, y'all) and drive away.

I laughed all the way home. Only in Memphis.


cheers,
elizabeth