Fire on the mountain, snakes in the grass, the old man died...

Yesterday I needed some cash. There is a walk-in ATM nearby, but it's only a stumble away from a seedy bar. Eric won't use that ATM. I do, even though I'm constantly looking over my shoulder.

I pulled up, and as I turned off the ignition, a slightly staggering man carefully made his way to a white car parked behind me. I don't trust drunk people, and being in the vicinity of easy cash, I'm especially leery.

The guy, probably in his 50s, was dressed in a white t-shirt, the undershirt type, and a pair of ill-fitting, very ragged jeans. His hair was a bit of a mess. He held himself up against the passenger side of the car, then launched himself into the front seat. He rummaged quite a lot, tossing stuff around. Finally, he stood up, leaned back farther than a drunk person should, and popped something into his mouth, then resumed his rummaging. He pulled out a white rag, loosened his belt, undid his pants, reached down the back of his jeans, and deeply and vigorously wiped his ass. Does this bar not have a bathroom?

At that point, he recovered his senses a little and looked around. He saw me in my car. I kept watching anyway. He turned his back to me and fumbled with the front of himself, then pulled his belt very tight and buckled it. He straightened his shirt, then went behind his car and put something under the bumper behind the license plate. Then he went back inside.

I took my $10 out of the bank and went on my merry way.