Satchels and Cubbies

This weekend I stumbled into one of my neighborhood’s many, many record stores looking to kill some time. I placed my satchel (yeah, that’s right, satchel) in one of the cubbies and headed on in, only to have the record store guy shout after me, “Hey!” and point down at the delicious, delicious ice coffee in my hand. “Can you leave that back here?”

“Sure,” I said, and walked back, placing the drink in the cubby next to my satchel. Then I looked up at him slightly angry, very seriously and said, “Just don’t drink any of it.”

You see, in that moment, for some reason I thought it would be kinda funny for a guy to not wanna leave his drink at the front of a store, not because he wanted to keep drinking it himself, but because he was paranoid about other people drinking it.

But yeah, I guess that sometimes I forget that other people can’t actually see into my brain, and by enacting such hilarious “what-if” scenes in reality, you come across as, well, FUCKING CRAZY.

Or possibly flirtatious, as I think this record store guy thought. In response, he just glared back down at me without saying a word. So, instead of breaking a smile to indicate "Chill out dude, I was kidding," I just went with it, holding my serious “Don’t touch that coffee, motherfucker” gaze and went to browse some ABBA records.

I guess that’s one of the benefits of being a sketch comedian. Whenever anyone cops a “What the fuck is wrong with you?” attitude, 9 out of 10 times I'm able to reply: “This is exactly what the fuck is wrong with me.”

And then, of course, I dance my jig.