How Did He Know?

A little background before I tell today's story: I don't work in a particularly nice part of town. In fact, I work in the straight-up hood. Yes, straight-up.

Every morning before work (and sometimes during depending on how fast time decides to move that morning) I go to a nearby convenience store to get an energy drink.

There are five other, nicer convenience stores I could visit - but they don't carry the particular brand of drink I want. Nor could my patronage there ever give me such a story to tell.

Anyway, I told you that to tell you this:

This morning I went to my usual store to grab my usual Canned Energy Supplement. I passed two panhandlers, went in and made my purchase. I have to pay in cash here because they won't let customers use a card unless $5 or more is spent - so I gave the guy a fiver and paid for my drink.

Walking out the door one of the guys asks me for change - eighty-five cents.

First of all, I applaud him for his technique. By asking for a specific amount he probably increases his chances of skeeving change off an unwary passer-by because he creates the illusion that he might be purchasing something useful - other than malt liquor.

Second of all, my energy drink cost $2.15. I paid with a five-dollar bill.

My change was eighty-five cents.

Apparently this hobo was psychic. Naturally I pulled the wool over his eyes and lied to him - I don't have ANY change.

And as I turned around the most beautiful, voluptuous crack-ho ever walked up to the store. She pirouetted gracefully in her crack-trance, twitching and looking around her warily.

Psychic hobos and ballerina crack whores make my life complete.